


Rear Fucking Window

by SNQA



Category: Homeland
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11551995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SNQA/pseuds/SNQA
Summary: Peter Quinn is recovering from a stroke and a broken ankle. He has a new apartment, a new physical therapist and a new hobby.This is a pre-season 6 alternate universe based on Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window.DAY FIVE ALTERNATE ENDING IS NEW!





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> The only characters in this story that are based on canon are Quinn, Carrie and Dar. The remainder included all play similar roles to those in the original Hitchcock movie.
> 
> I wrote this before season 6 started, so my Quinn is a little less damaged, physically and mentally, and my Carrie is more loving.
> 
> Thanks to FrangipaniFlower, LeBlanc1 and ascloseasthis for editing and all of their support!

Quinn stares out of the windows, seeing only the lives being lived on the other side of the glass, while he lives in limbo between a past he'd like to forget and a future that’s too painful to envision.

 

The three large windows in the living room of the third floor apartment look out onto a small courtyard in the Brooklyn neighborhood.  It seemed less than ideal when he first was shown the place by the realtor; too much light.  But it had an elevator and no stairs to climb, and was close to Carrie's brownstone, and the hospital, where he was still receiving therapy.  

 

It had been a month since he had left Carrie's basement, despite her strong objections, and being on his own.  And it only took a week for him to break the ankle on his good leg, when he fell getting out of bed in the middle of the night.

 

_Fuck me._

 

Three weeks in a cast that starts at his foot and goes up to his knee. Three weeks of being even more limited than his usual hampered mobility. Three weeks of twice daily visits from Carrie, bringing food and insisting he come back to her house.  Three weeks of physical therapy in his apartment, since it was too difficult to go to the hospital. Three weeks of being confined to a wheelchair, his only connection to the outside world being his computer, his phone and his windows.

 

He'd spend countless hours each day, looking through these windows and into the lives of his neighbors.  People he'd never met, but now knows intimately.

 

He'd watch them work and play, cook and clean, fight and fuck.

 

He's a spy.  That's what he's good at — what he was trained to do and do well.  But this isn't _real_ spying.  There are no international secrets to uncover, no terrorist plots to spoil, no bad man to take out.  He no longer belongs to the CIA or Dar Adal or the group. He's just an ordinary citizen, a broken and bored man, who has nothing better to do.

 

Eight a.m., right on schedule, Quinn hears the key opening the front door.

 

She enters the apartment, Starbucks coffee in her hand, as she meticulously surveys the room, with its gray-painted walls, gray couch and matching gray chair, before her eyes finally settle on him — his matching navy blue t-shirt and shorts a sharp contrast to the dreary gray of his surroundings.

 

“Fuck, Quinn.  Did you sleep in that chair all night again?” She rolls her eyes as she places the coffee cup down on the entrance table, then throws her bags on the couch and takes off her jacket, hanging it on the coat rack by the front door.  Grabbing the coffee from the table, she moves towards Quinn, hovering over him with a disapproving gaze.

 

“If you can call it sleeping,” Quinn responds flatly.

 

“Maybe if you got in your bed at night, you'd _actually_ be able to sleep.”

 

“Being in bed is what got me into this. What's the point?”

 

“Getting _out_ of bed was the problem, Quinn.  I really wish you'd come back to my place.  This would be so much easier,” she sighs in frustration.

 

“One more week and the cast comes off.  And I've told you before, you don't have to come every day. I can handle getting food on my own.”

 

“I wouldn't exactly call bread and whiskey a wholesome meal,” she quips, her eyebrows raised.

 

“Dar brought me some donuts yesterday. Pairs perfectly with the whiskey.”

 

Quinn lifts his arms up to stretch, then bends his neck from one ear to the other, letting out a liberating groan.

 

“Well, I have an onion bagel and cream cheese for you. And some cut cantaloupe.  Plus, I brought you Starbucks.  Decaf — so you don't get all wound up from the caffeine.”

 

“Then it's not coffee, Carrie,” he smirks, taking the coffee from Carrie’s offering hand.

 

Carrie sets up his food on the tray table and brings it over to Quinn.

 

“So, am I missing something?” Quinn studies the food in front of him. “I don't see any protein. Where's the usual four food groups?” He looks up from his plate to Carrie, still hovering, her arms crossed, her forehead furrowed.

 

“First of all, it's five groups now.  And secondly, the cream cheese will have to count as your protein.”

 

“Really?  Five groups? Did that happen when I was in the coma? Do they go to six if I have another?

 

Carrie glances at her watch, attempting to ignore Quinn's hollow banter. “What time is your nurse coming today?”

 

“Christ, Carrie.  How many times do I have to tell you, she's a physical _therapist_ , not a nurse?” Quinn barks, quickly losing his patience for her misplaced mothering.

 

“So what time is your _physical_ _therapist_ expected today?” Carrie complies and repeats her question, trying not to rile him up any further —  knowing  that his emotions are more volatile since his stroke.  

 

“Noon,” he exhales, replying calmly.

 

“Okay,” she says, her lips pursed as she nods, avoiding his gaze before striding into the kitchen.

 

Quinn takes a bite of the overly cream cheesed bagel, listening to Carrie aggressively opening and closing drawers and cabinets;  trying his best to remain relaxed, while he endures her daily interruption of his self-pitying routine.

 

“So she can help you with lunch, even though that's probably _not_ in her job description?” She calls out, apparently taking stock of his food supplies as the banging of doors and drawers continue.

 

“Sure,” he lies, wanting his solitude to come sooner rather than later.

 

She returns from the kitchen, her mission completed and stands in front of him again, hands on her hips. “There's still some chicken salad in the fridge.  And there's a few cans of soup left in the pantry.”

 

An uncomfortable silence fills the room as Quinn takes a sip of his coffee —Carrie’s watchful eye making sure he doesn't spill it.  He knows the reason why a sudden smile crosses her lips.  She has noticed that his tremor has lessened—it's barely perceptible, but she knows better than to comment on it.  

 

Carrie moves over to the windows, looking into the top floor apartment on the right side of the courtyard.

 

“Anything new with any of your _friends_?” she says with a mocking tone, her back turned to Quinn.

 

“The Diaz family got a new puppy yesterday. The little fucker was up barking half the night.  And the newlyweds have been arguing.”

 

“Newlyweds?”

 

“Yeah.  They just moved in last week. There.” Quinn points to the left corner apartment with the large terrace. “The wife is hot, by the way,” Quinn says, not giving her the answer he knows she's fishing for.

 

“How do you know they’re newlyweds?” Carrie asks, turning to Quinn, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

 

“I told Dar that I thought they might be terrorists plotting to blow up the Brooklyn Bridge, so he ran background checks on them,” Quinn deadpans.

 

“You did what? Quinn!”

 

“Christ, Carrie,” he snorts, “I saw them watching their wedding video — no one married longer than a year would ever do that. Plus they fuck a lot.”

 

“Oh.” Carrie quickly moves on with her daily interrogation. “And what about your girlfriend? The stripper? She keep you up last night too with one of her midnight shows?” Carrie inquires, her head tilted downward, her cheeks slightly flushed.

 

“She's a yoga instructor and no such luck. She had a late night last night. Didn't get in until close to two in the morning and went right to bed.”

 

“So no naked downward dogs?” Carrie pauses, inhaling sharpy, “I’m beginning to think she doesn't exist — you sure she isn't just a figment of your imagination?” Her gaze returns to Quinn who is seemingly oblivious to the tinge of jealousy in her voice. “Do you need anything before I leave?” Carrie clears her throat, changing the subject abruptly.

 

“No. I'm good.” Quinn gives a half smile, his eyes locking with hers.

 

“Well, I'll be back tonight for dinner, if you think you can deal with me twice in one day. I'll bring Indian.”

 

“Fine. Only because I'm really craving samosas,” Quinn smirks, realizing he lacks the strength to fight her, knowing that she’d win anyway.

 

“Obviously.”

 

Carrie picks up her purse from the couch and hesitates, taking one last look at Quinn; a false smile still painted on his face.

 

“Get some sleep, will you?” she says in earnest.

 

“Sure, Carrie. Anything for you,” shaking his head, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

She leaves and he's alone once again.

 

He finishes his meal and positions his wheelchair in front of the windows.  

 

Most of the neighborhood is quiet now.  People have gone to work and the children to school. The newlyweds, who apparently couldn’t afford a proper honeymoon, must be sleeping in, so the only people around at this hour are the older couple directly across the courtyard from Quinn.

 

He's a pharmaceutical rep and she's… broken.  Dead inside, he imagines.  She stays in bed all day, drinks, pops pills, nags her husband. Quinn sometimes wonders how she got that way — her damage apparently being only internal.

 

He watches them go about their typical morning.  As the husband is getting ready to go out on the road with his large suitcase filled with drug samples, his wife stays in bed hollering at him about… something.  Ignoring her berating, he uses his phone to text someone.  From his expression and his need for privacy, Quinn suspects there's another woman in the picture.  Although he can't blame the guy — living with a ghost must get lonely.

 

Quinn, getting bored with the estranged couple, peeks in on the newlyweds.  Their shades are now up.  Maybe he'll get lucky and they'll have another one of their arguments where he fucks her afterwards — that would at least give him some relief from his perpetual boredom.

 

He's amazed at what people do with their shades open.  

 

———

 

The afternoon goes by quickly, as much of it is spent sleeping.  The physical therapist had helped him onto the couch before she left, so he was finally able to rest for few hours in the afternoon.  

 

———

 

When Carrie lets herself in at seven o'clock, Quinn is still passed out.  Her face lights up as she watches him sleep, knowing that these are probably his only moments of peace throughout his day.  She stares at him a little too long as his heavy eyelids start to open, feeling her gaze upon him. But she can't seem to help herself; she's frozen — mesmerized by how beautiful he is.  How had she never seen it before?

 

His eyes meet hers, only for a few seconds, but long enough that she's embarrassed by her ogling. She turns away and hurries into the kitchen before he is fully awake, putting the carryout Indian food on the counter.

 

“Did you just get here?” He calls from the couch, his voice hoarse after his long nap. “What time is it?”

 

“Yeah.  It's a little after seven.  Were you sleeping for long?” Carrie yells from the kitchen, busying herself with getting their dinner prepared.

 

“I don't know.” He grunts as he pulls himself up to a seated position, then carefully adjusts his casted leg so it rests on the coffee table in front of him.

 

“Here, let me help you with that,” Carrie says as she rushes into the living room.

 

“I'm fine.  I can do this myself, for fuck’s sake.”  

 

His angry tone stops her, and she abruptly changes direction and heads back into the kitchen, silently returning to her prior task, holding back the tears that threaten to come.

 

“Do you want some wine?” she calls out, her voice trembling as she tries to regain her composure.

 

“No. Whiskey. It should be on the counter.”

 

After a few minutes and a couple deep, calming breaths, she rolls the tray of food in front of the couch and hands him his drink. “Well, I hope you're hungry.  I got all of your favorites,” she says, over-exaggerating a cheerful tone.  

 

“Carrie?” Quinn mutters as she sits down next to him on couch, unable to take his eyes off of her. He clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair. “What's the occasion?”

 

“Huh? Oh, the dress.” Carrie tries her best to act coy, but the little black dress with the plunging neckline and short skirt tells a different story.  She crosses her legs slowly as Quinn watches, giving her a good once over before his eyes come to rest on hers. “I had a meeting earlier this evening with a potential investor in my practice.”  She grins with satisfaction at Quinn's obvious attraction, finally feeling a small victory.

 

Carrie rambles on throughout dinner, buzzed from the two glasses of whiskey she drank, telling Quinn all about her new investor.  A German philanthropist that has his own organization providing legal services to Muslims mistreated and wrongfully accused by law enforcement and government agencies in Germany. She also makes sure to point out how knowledgeable and passionate he is about his work, trying unsuccessfully this time, to get another reaction from Quinn.

 

After Carrie clears the food away, she goes over to the windows, opens the center one and looks out across the courtyard — curious as to how Quinn spends his days and nights.  

 

“You can see much better if you turn out the lights,” he tells her, his voice flat.

 

“Oh, I just thought we should get some fresh air.  It's good for your lungs and the weather has warmed up in the last couple days. It finally feels like spring.” Carrie tries to conceal her intentions, while glancing over to the yoga teacher's apartment, wanting to see for herself just how attractive she really is, but is quickly distracted by the view and sounds coming from another room.

 

“Who are _they_?” Carrie asks, moving slowly backwards, but still staring through the open window at the arguing couple in the corner apartment. The couple's angry voices are loud enough to be heard, but not understood.

 

She follows Quinn's advice and turns off all of the lights, before joining him back on the couch, closer than before, so that their thighs just barely touch.

 

“Those are the newlyweds.  The Brodys.  Yeah, they’ve been doing this a lot.  Just wait and see what happens after, when they make up,” Quinn smirks, his eyebrows raised, looking over briefly at Carrie who's captivated by the angry red-haired man and his beautiful wife.

 

The screaming lasts another ten minutes as the couple moves from the kitchen, through the living room and then to the bedroom.  

 

But just as Quinn promised, the couple’s passionate argument turns into passionate kissing. The husband spins his wife around and throws her on the bed, face down, while he lifts up her nightgown and takes off her panties, hovering over her at the foot of the bed.  He quickly pulls his own pants down and grabs her hips, pulling her swiftly towards his waiting erection, entering her, then fucking her hard and steady, as his wife squeals with pleasure.

 

Carrie briefly takes her eyes off of the live sex show in front of them and glances at Quinn as he tries to discreetly place a pillow on his lap.

 

“You want the binoculars?” he asks Carrie, his voice gruff, as she turns back to watch the couple climax in unison.

 

Carrie, still stunned, speechless and more than just a little aroused, looks over at Quinn, her heart pounding so loudly in her chest that she fears he will hear it.  She can feel the warmth coming from his body, as their legs are still touching, both of them frozen and seemingly unwilling to break their connection.

 

Seconds that seem like minutes pass by, as their eyes finally meet. Without any further hesitation, Quinn moves towards her, Carrie meeting him halfway until their lips connect with urgency. His hand finds the back of her neck, pulling her harder against him, his lips parting her lips, his mouth exploring her mouth. She can feel his warm breath on her skin, exciting her further, causing her to moan into his mouth as she tilts her head in countermotion to his head, her hands coming up to gently frame his face. She instantly realizes that nothing's changed for him — she can feel it in his kiss. He _still_ wants her.

 

Carrie runs her hand down the back of his head to his neck, grasping his hair, pulling him into an even closer embrace, deepening the kiss. His tongue, tantalizingly, slowly, pushes into her mouth, overwhelming her with emotion and desire for him — her mind trying to comprehend that this is finally happening.

 

Quinn grabs her by the waist, their mouths still joined, and runs his good hand up to to her breast, cupping it, kneading it, as his thumb brushes against her hard nipple over top of the thin material of her dress. Adding his forefinger, he pinches it greedily, twisting it, sending a bolt of electricity through her body, making Carrie whimper against his mouth.

 

“Oh god. Quinn,” she moans as she breaks the kiss, lifting her leg to straddle him, her dress rising up to her waist as she slowly begins to rub herself against his hard-on.

 

Quinn’s hand relinquishes her breast and joins its counterpart that is quickly moving up her thigh — slipping underneath the back of her panties. Grasping her ass, he rocks her firmly against himself, while gradually increasing the pace; his breath steadily becoming louder and faster, as his eyes glance downward at the layers of clothing that still separate them.

 

She watches Quinn as he tips his head up and leans forward, his eyes focused in on her lips.  But his forward progression is immediately halted by her hand, as she reaches up to stroke his cheek, desperately wanting to gain an intimate connection with him; needing this moment to convey her love for him, not just lust, but unsure if he will be able recognize it.

 

She moves her hand down to his chin and gently lifts his head, her eyes seeking and finally find his. She is bewitched by the intensity of his stare — seeing in him the love, the want, the need, that's he’s kept hidden away for all these years.

 

Quinn’s eyes suddenly widen as he abruptly pulls away and pushes her off of him. “Stop!” he says, breathless.

 

“I'm sorry.  Did I hurt you?” Carrie says, confused, her body sprawled across the cheap, microfiber couch, stunned by the amount of force he’d used to push her away.  

 

“Fuck!  We can't do this. You should leave... now!” he yells, his face angled to the floor, his hand gripping the front of his hair.  

 

“Leave? Quinn, what are you talking about? Will you at least look at me?” Carrie cries, unsuccessfully trying to hold back the tears.

 

“Please, Carrie. Just get the fuck out.” Quinn's voice a little softer now, but still unable to look in her direction.

 

“Fine. I'm going,” Carrie says, barely able to choke out the words.

 

She quickly picks up her purse and jacket and heads towards the door — this time not turning back to look at him, as the tears come pouring down her cheeks.

 

She walks through the door, slamming it closed behind her, confused by his rejection; not knowing how she will face him in the morning.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn has some pleasurable alone time. We meet the physical therapist. The mystery deepens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to FrangipaniFlower, LeBlanc1 and ascloseasthis for helping me with this story.

It is by no means an easy task for Quinn to get back into his wheelchair on his own, but it is either that, or end up being even further humiliated when Carrie finds him in the morning covered in his own piss. 

 

But his upper body strength has greatly improved over the past few weeks, with the help of his PT, the  smart as fuck and hot as fuck German woman, who knew exactly how to push him to his limits.

 

It's after midnight, two hours since Carrie's hurried departure; the events of the evening playing  over and over again in his mind without pause. The dress, the kiss, her breast in his hand… him pushing her away. Her tear-streaked face when she left. The door slamming on her way out. 

 

He would kill any man who did that to her — treat her that way. But  _ he _ did that to her. Hurt her. Made her cry when all he's wanted to do for three years is kiss her again, hold her in his arms and make love to her. And that was it — his chance. She wanted him, but why? Out of pity or loneliness? This need to take care of him that she can't seem to shake? Redemption? Remorse? He can think of so many reasons why she might want him in that moment, but none of them had anything to do with love. 

 

And that's what he really needs from her — love. Being with her, absent her truly loving him, would fucking destroy any remaining slivers of his tortured, fragmented soul. 

He opens the drawer to his end table, grabs the medicine bottle, takes two pills out, and swallows them down with a swig of the whiskey that Carrie had left out on the coffee table. With the bottle of booze on his lap, he turns his chair to face the windows, just in time. 

 

Fara, the dark-haired beauty, is just starting her nightly yoga stretches, as always, wearing only a tank top and panties, directly in front of her open window. 

 

Quinn takes two more swigs of the whiskey before returning the bottle to the table. If he's going to get any sleep after tonight’s clusterfuck, he'll need all the help he can get. But he can still smell her perfume on his skin, still taste her on his lips. He needs Carrie Mathison erased from his head, from his heart and from his soul. Though, for now, he'll settle for just erasing her from his apartment. 

 

His eyes go to Fara, watching her shift back on her heels from her plank pose and into a downward dog, her toned ass rising up towards the ceiling. Quinn can feel himself getting aroused, while his head starts to feel the effects of the booze and medication working its way into his system. 

 

He lowers his pants just enough to take hold of himself, rubbing, growing harder, as Fara shifts into a forward bend. But as his eyes close, black hair is replaced by golden blonde, dark skin replaced by fair; reflexively, he can only see Carrie now in that window. 

 

His strokes are at first slow and controlled, but as Carrie's image appears in front of him, he increases the pressure and speed. He imagines her on her knees as he pushes her head down, thrusting his hard cock into her waiting mouth, feeling her sucking and licking him, enjoying his dominance over her while he slowly fucks her mouth. Her soft moans telling him without words that she wants him and is excited by the pleasure she is giving him.

 

He gently touches her head to signal her to stop, bringing her to stand before him, her full lips wet in a pout. 

 

“Take off your dress,” he demands and she obeys, slowly removing the little black dress that had gotten him so excited in their real encounter. 

 

“Now your panties.” Quinn imagines her pulling down a pair of black lace bikinis, slowly, before stepping out of them; Carrie uninhibited and subservient.

 

She's beautiful — his imagination, unaffected by the stroke, has no difficulty filling in the blanks of what he was able to  _ actually _ feel with his hands, and turning that into the phantom image in front of him.

 

Standing to face her, he slowly touches her chin, mirroring her touch from earlier, looking into her eyes without fear, without pushing her away, but instead, sweetly kissing her lips, then lifting her in his arms and carrying her to his bed. 

 

Lying on his back, he pulls Carrie on top of him, her legs straddling his head, her head poised over his cock. Her soft, wet pussy hovers directly above his mouth as she begs for his touch. He obliges. With his hands on her ass, he pulls her closer. His tongue slowly starts to trace her lips, teasing her, circling her entrance before finally plunging inside, making her scream with excitement just before she takes him back into her mouth; moaning and whimpering as she slowly sucks him, taking him in even farther than before. Quinn replaces his tongue with two long fingers, pushing into her while Carrie begins to rock her hips, his tongue now finding and working her clit, her moans becoming louder, her mouth vibrating around his shaft. 

 

With just a few more flicks of his tongue, she abruptly abandons her own work, lifting up her head and crying out his name as she comes, so hard that her body quivers uncontrollably. Then she tells him, her voice ragged, that it’s his turn now and she wants — no — she  _ needs _ to see and feel  _ him _ come apart. So she immediately returns to finish him off, using her mouth and hand together, moving faster, sucking harder, going deeper. His fingers are still inside her when he thrusts into her, feeling her mouth, hot and wet around him.

 

Overcome with excitement from his fantasy, it only takes Quinn a few more rapid strokes with his hand and he’s gone, intense waves of pleasure filling him, groaning loudly as he comes. 

 

As his breathing and heart rate begin to slow, his eyes flicker open, his mind reluctantly returning to his unfortunate reality. He grabs a tissue from the table to clean up the mess — not wanting to leave behind any evidence.

 

Exhaustion settles in shortly after his release. His eyelids softly close and his head falls back as he drifts off to sleep, still thinking of her, confident in his decision to push her away; even with the knowledge that he will only get to possess her, pleasure her, love her, in his dreams. 

 

———

 

A crash in the night. A scream in the still air, causing a gentle vibration in the glass that separates his worlds, rousing him from sleep. His eyes open briefly, not knowing if he's awake or in a dream. He sees a flash of a light coming through the closed window shades in the Berenson's apartment, but then it's back to darkness, as his head falls to his shoulder and his mind eases back into a peaceful nothingness.

 

——

The sound of a piano playing a familiar tune from across the courtyard gently awakens Quinn from his deep sleep, as the vague memories from the previous evening start to float back into his consciousness. But just as the music, with it's simple, dreamy melody, begins to lull him back under, the dissonant sound of fingers crashing down on the piano keys all at once startle him into a state of full awareness.

 

_ Fucking Lockhart _ ! 

 

Quinn watches as the older man slumps over his keyboard, his head in his hands; elbows resting on the keys. His composing career is over, but the stubborn bastard won't give it up. He considers taking him out for playing so early in the morning; he’d be doing the guy a favor — he does still have his sniper rifle. 

 

He stretches his stiff neck and rubs his eyes, trying to adapt to the morning sunlight streaming into the apartment. His attention moves from the piano composer’s apartment up to Fara, in the apartment directly above, doing her morning sun salutations, unfortunately fully clothed, then across to the Berensons’ windows. The almost always opened shades are now closed. There's no way in. Quinn's morning is not off to a good start.

 

Quinn runs his hand through his hair, then looks at his watch, realizing it's actually not so early. It's a little after nine o'clock. His heart sinks — no Carrie. 

 

He should be relieved that he finally pushed her away. After all, he's dead inside. Carrie deserves better than a dead man, a ghost. 

 

But this curse — this dire love for her that he tries to bury, is the only part of him that  _ is _ still alive; relentlessly trying to fight it's way out.

 

Quinn manages to make himself some coffee and toast and clean himself up before Carrie finally arrives, two hours later than her usual time. He still hasn't the slightest clue what to say to her about last night — hopeful that she will just ignore it, like so many of their vague interactions in the past. 

 

———

 

She knocks — a first for her — before letting herself in the door. 

 

“I know I’m late,” she says, storming in and scattering her belongings around the room, Starbucks cup still in hand. “I overslept and Franny had a meltdown about going to school and —" Carrie notices the coffee mug and plate on the tray table, with the crumbs of toast that Quinn left behind. 

 

“Oh. So I guess you  _ were _ able to get your own breakfast. That's great,” a feigned smile crosses her lips. “Do you still want this coffee? I can just throw it out if you don't.” Carrie tries her best to not sound disappointed in his accomplishments, but knows she may soon run out of excuses for her twice daily visits. 

 

“I'll take it. The stuff I made this morning tasted like shit,” Quinn manages a weak smile, holding his good hand out to her. 

 

She hands him the coffee. He takes a small sip, then places it on the table. 

 

“You could help me move onto the couch. Please. I've been in this chair all night and making breakfast kinda wore me out,” he confesses in a weak effort to make amends, his eyes avoiding hers.

 

“Sure.” Carrie crouches down next to his wheelchair as he places his arm around her for support, her arm wraps around his waist. He gingerly lifts himself up out of the chair with a grunt, pivoting, and plopping down on the firm coach. Carrie, still attached, sits down with him, gazing into his eyes for some kind of recognition of what transpired the night before. 

 

“Quinn. We really need to talk,” Carrie asserts, her voice sincere, but tinged with fear.

 

“Yeah? What about?” 

 

Carrie glares at him, stunned. “Fuck you!” She snaps, her brow furrowed, shocked by his sheer obtusity. 

 

They look at each other, faces frozen, both waiting for the other to speak next. 

 

Finally, Quinn concedes, his voice now earnest, “Carrie, I —” 

 

The sound of the front door opening startles them both, as they turn to look at the tall, statuesque, blonde woman entering the apartment. 

 

“Hello,” she says cautiously, glancing back and forth between Carrie and Quinn, sensing the tension in the room. 

 

Carrie jumps up from the couch, her cheeks flushed, not even consciously understanding her embarrassment in the situation. 

 

“Astrid. You're early...” Quinn clears his throat. “This is Carrie.” 

 

“ _ You're _ the physical therapist?” Carrie exclaims, not hiding the surprise in her voice.

 

“Yes. And I like to do my sessions in private, if you don't mind, so Peter won't be distracted,” Astrid orders, her German accent adding an extra layer of bite to her tone. 

 

“Well, Astrid, I actually  _ do _ mind. I just got here and I have food that I need to prepare so  _ Peter _ doesn't starve to death. Unless you want to cook for him?” Carrie retorts.

“Have you ever considered Meals On Wheels? They deliver.”

 

“Motherfucker.” Quinn says, ignoring the bickering women, his attention turned towards the open windows. “She's gone.”

 

“Huh? Who's gone?” Carrie responds quizzically, looking over towards Quinn.

 

“The wife. Berenson’s wife. The one that stays in bed all day, drinking and taking pills,” Quinn points in the direction of the couples empty bedroom, with the bed made and all of the wife's personal belongings from the nightstand, gone. 

 

The three of them stare out of the windows and into the apartment. All the shades are up, but there's no sign of Mrs. Berenson. 

 

“Astrid, hand me my binoculars,” Quinn orders decisively. 

 

“So?” Carrie questions. “Maybe she went out. To the store. Or to a doctor's appointment,” her annoyance apparent as she tries to reason without success. 

 

Astrid evidently has been spending time with Quinn doing more than bicep curls, because she knows exactly where he keeps the binoculars. She pulls them off of the bookshelf and hands them over to Quinn. 

 

“She never goes out,” Astrid says with a dismissive tone while briefly glancing over at Carrie, then back to Quinn. “Do you think he finally did it?”

 

“Did what? What the  _ fuck _ are you both talking about?” Carrie runs her hand through her hair, frustration mounting. 

 

“Mrs. Berenson hasn't left that apartment in over four years. She's got acrophobia,” Astrid declares as she joins Quinn on the couch.

 

“Agoraphobia,” Quinn gently corrects, glancing at Astrid, a teasing smile crossing his lips. 

 

Carrie stands frozen, not believing what she is witnessing, unable to breathe momentarily. 

 

“Uh, how do you know all of this?” Carrie finally blurts out, her eyes narrowing, glaring directly at Quinn. “And what do you think? He killed her?”

 

“Peter wanted me to ask around, so I did. And yes, I do think he killed her,” Astrid replies as Carrie stays focused on Quinn, avoiding Astrid’s scowl. 

 

“Really, Quinn? You have your physical therapist doing your legwork? Helping you spy on your neighbors?”

 

“Yes. I'm very good at it, too.” Astrid snaps back, crossing her arms over her chest, finally getting Carrie’s attention as two pairs of blue eyes drill into each other. 

 

“Maybe you should just stick to the job that you're being paid to do, instead of indulging Quinn in his delusions with your amateur spy work.”

 

“What the fuck, Carrie?!” Quinn exclaims, his jaw twitching wildly. 

 

The room falls deafeningly silent for what seems to be an eternity, as Carrie fights to recover her power of speech. 

 

“I'm gonna go now, Quinn. I don't think I'll be back later, so why don't you call Meals On Wheels for your fucking dinner tonight,” Carrie seethes, shocked by Quinn's admonishment, which echoes relentlessly in her head. 

 

She quickly gathers her belongings and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her once again, this time overwhelmed with anger and jealousy, but finally understanding the previous night’s rejection. Simply, he's changed and she's no longer what he wants. Last night was all a lie. Just a reflex during a moment of weakness. She must have imagined seeing love in his eyes, because the only thing she can see now is resentment.

 

She should be relieved; she's off the hook. But the miserable fuck made her care about him. Love him. And the idea of him  _ being _ with that German woman is making her want to vomit.. 

 

She stands on the other side of the door, unable to walk away, her heart still racing, her cheeks devoid of color. But then she does; knowing, of course, that she'll be back. 

  
  


———

After forty-five minutes of strenuous exercise, Astrid helps Quinn remove his shirt and pants and lies him face down on her portable massage table, his body glistening with beads of perspiration. Quinn moans with relief as she begins to knead the sore muscles above his casted leg. 

 

“Your girlfriend… is she always such a bitch?" 

 

“She's just used to getting her way,” Quinn replies flatly. 

 

“I don't think it was that,” Astrid retorts. “You think Berenson really killed his wife?”

 

“I don't know. Maybe he finally snapped. Something's definitely not right. She should be there.”

 

“So, what should we do? Call the police?”

 

“Fuck the police. They won't do anything without any real evidence. I'll call an old colleague. He can check it out.”

 

“What's  _ her _ deal?” Astrid says, looking into the apartment below Berenson’s. 

 

Quinn lifts his head, tracing Astrid’s eyes to the meticulously neat apartment with the frumpy, red-haired woman, her head down on her dressing table; a half empty bottle of wine next to her. “Miss Lonelyhearts. Allison. She needs a man. Spends her time on the computer doing online dating. Don't think it's worked out so far. She drinks a lot. Cries a lot. Smokes weed daily. Masturbates often. She's got this crazy vibrator that looks like a rabbit.”

 

“You really are a… What do they call it? A peeping John?”

 

“Tom. Peeping Tom.”

 

“Maybe you need a hobby.”

 

“Old habits die hard.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing... You wanna help or not?”

 

“Why don't you ask your girlfriend? Isn't she ex-CIA?”

 

“She is, but I won't. She wouldn't believe me anyway.” Quinn places his head back down on the table, hiding his doleful expression. “I need you to ask the neighbors if they saw either of the Berensons leave the apartment last night. Whatever happened, happened after midnight when I was asleep.”

 

“Fine. I'll come back later and ask around. I've got a couple more patients to see when I'm done with you.” Astrid moves her strong hands up to Quinn's back, continuing to loosen his strained muscles. “I think she's jealous — your girlfriend.”

 

“What? Just get the information. And be careful. Make sure Berenson doesn't find out you're asking about him.”

 

“Peter, you  _ really _ need to get laid.”

 

“Are you offering?”

 

“No. I'm married, remember?”

 

“How about just a happy ending?” Quinn props his head up with his good arm, giving Astrid a teasing smile. 

 

“Go fuck yourself, ”Astrid replies with a lopsided grin. 

 

“Every fucking day.” 

 

Quinn lays his head back down with a sigh and closes his eyes; his mind going back to Carrie. 

 

———

 

Quinn spends much of his afternoon watching the Berensons’ empty apartment, while trying to get more information on him and the wife. But all he gets is some basic information. No arrests. The guy was career military. A colonel. Retired ten years ago and started working for the pharmaceutical company six years ago. The couple had been married for twenty-three years. No children. 

 

He needs some better intel on Berenson’s years in service. Personality profiles. Psychological reports. All this is information that somebody with a high security clearance could easily access. And someone needs to get into that apartment right away to find if there's any evidence left from the murder — this could all be for naught if Berenson did kill her and is now in the wind. 

 

He and Astrid can only do so much. Reluctantly, he calls Dar Adal. 

 

———

 

Carrie stands at his door again, contemplating whether she should knock first, or just let herself in; although the third option of leaving the food on his doorstep, ringing the bell and just running away seems to be the most appealing.

 

Inhaling sharply, she musters up her courage and knocks, reminding  herself that this is about him.  _ He _ needs her help whether he's willing to admit it or not. Whether he pushes her away or accepts her help with open arms. He was always there for her in the past and she, well, wasn't for him. She deserves his scorn. His rage. Those nine days in Berlin will forever haunt her.

 

“Quinn. It's me, Carrie. Can I come in?” She yells through the closed door. 

 

After a minute and no response, Carrie lets herself in to find him sitting on the floor, struggling to pull himself into his wheelchair. 

 

“Jesus, Quinn!” She throws her bags on the table and rushes over to him. He reluctantly puts his arm around her as she helps him back into his chair, letting go of her immediately after. 

 

“What happened?”

 

“What the fuck do you think happened? I tried to get into the chair from the couch and I couldn't do it. Fuck! And I don't want your goddamn help!”

 

Carrie kneels in front of him, “Well, that's too fuckin’ bad because I'm here and I'm helping you. Let me... Please, Quinn.” Carrie's eyes moisten as she pleads with him, her face filled with desperation and frustration.

 

He breathes in deeply; she can almost see in his expression that his heart and mind are competing for his attention. 

 

“Okay,” he finally mumbles. 

 

“Okay,” she nods, satisfied and relieved. 

 

Carrie pauses, her eyes finding his, while she cautiously reaches out and touches the top of his hand. “How about some dinner? I got Greek tonight —  _ with _ extra olives.” 

 

That actually earns a genuine smile from him. One that shows off his dimples and reaches his eyes. His beautiful, crystal blue eyes; Carrie gets lost in them for a moment, smiles back, then gets up to prepare the food. 

 

———

 

They enjoy a very pleasant meal together, sharing the bottle of Pinot Grigio that the man in the liquor store recommended. Quinn tells her everything he knows about his neighbors. Lockhart, the struggling composer who won an Oscar for Best Original Score for some movie in the early 90’s. Fara, the beautiful yoga instructor who is studying to be a veterinarian. Miss Lonelyhearts, Allison, an accountant, who seems miserable both professionally and personally. He didn't dare mention the Brodys, for obvious reasons. 

 

Then there's the Berensons. Quinn details everything he's seen and investigated about the couple. He delicately tells her about the wife's mental health struggles, and Berenson's apparent difficulties in dealing with her. Their financial issues and constant arguments. Quinn's suspicions that he's having an affair. 

 

“And so you think he killed her? Isn't that a bit of a stretch, Quinn?”

 

“The night she disappeared, their shades were down. She always kept them opened… The other thing is, I may have heard something in the middle of the night.”

 

“What do you think you  _ may _ have heard?” Carrie tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. 

 

“I'm not sure. I just remember waking up briefly in the middle of the night from a loud noise. I had taken my pain medication so, I dunno, maybe I was dreaming, but it sounded like a scream.”

 

“So he killed her. Then what? How would he have gotten the body out?”

 

“Really, Carrie? This guy spent his entire career in the military. He could have dissolved the body with lye or... chopped her up into pieces and carried her out. His family happened to own a butcher shop and meat distribution business when he was growing up. She could be scattered all over Brooklyn by now.”

 

“Jesus, Quinn.”

 

“I called Dar. He said he would look into it for me.”

 

Carrie gets up from her chair, turns off the lights, opens the shades and steps back, so not to be seen from the outside. The Berensons’ apartment is dark, but the shades are open. The only light visible is the glow of a cigarette burning, each drag briefly illuminating the silhouette of the man possessing it. 

 

“Is that him?” Carrie asks, her gaze not leaving the suspect apartment.

 

“Yeah. That's Saul Berenson.”

 

“I'm staying over tonight,” Carrie says with adamant certainty. 

 

“What? Carrie.”

 

“Someone needs to watch this fucker. Follow him if he leaves during the middle of the night,” her voice focused and controlled as she turns to face Quinn.

 

“Quinn hesitates, running his hand through his hair. “What about Franny?”

 

“My sister’s in town for the week. She can stay with her.”

 

“Carrie,” Quinn exhales, knowing he's no match for Carrie once she's made up her mind. 

 

“I'm helping you, remember?" 

 

“Okay. You can help.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 coming soon!


	3. Day Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn has a nightmare. Carrie and Quinn talk. Quinn lies. More Astrid. Berenson may be on the move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FrangipaniFlower, LeBlanc1 and ascloseasthis — my lovely editors and chiefs of support!

It's always the same in the dream. He's in the chamber, pain throughout his body, gasping for every breath. He looks through the glass at the faceless, angry men, searching for something — he's not sure what. Then he sees her. Just a cloudy image of golden hair at first, but he can feel it's her. Carrie. She's banging on the outside of the glass, her fists bloodied, shouting something he can't hear. Her face is frantic and sad and beautiful. He's desperately trying to talk to her, to tell her to run away; to let him go. But he can't speak. He can't breathe. Then everything goes black. 

 

He wakes up with a jolt, screaming her name, trembling in the darkness, terrified and alone. 

 

But he's not alone. She's there, sitting next to him on the couch. Holding him. Touching his face, her tearful eyes finding his. She whispers softly that he's safe now and she won't ever leave him, no matter how hard he tries to push her away. 

 

His breathing begins to slow as his mind returns to the present. A single tear rolls down his cheek. 

 

Taking her hand from his face, he gives it a gentle squeeze and places it on her lap, holding it there for a few precious seconds as he tries to chose the right words to say.

 

“I'm okay now,” he rasps, pulling away from her, but letting his gaze linger a bit longer, not wanting to break their connection entirely. 

 

He finally looks away from Carrie and toward Berenson’s apartment. “What time is it, and what's going on with Berenson? Any movement?” He shifts his body farther away from her while his hands vigorously rub his face, trying to obliterate the last visible traces of the nightmare from him. 

 

“It’s twelve-thirty. The lights are on in his bedroom, but the shades have been closed since you fell asleep.” She pauses, then gets up slowly. “I'm getting you some cold water.”

 

“Coffee. Can you get me some real coffee?”

 

“Sure,” she smiles, then goes into kitchen to pour a cup from the pot she already had brewing. 

 

She hands him the steaming cup and sits back down next to him on the couch, taking a sip from her own mug. 

 

“I didn't realize you still had the nightmares,” she says, staring into her mug.

 

“Yeah. Not as often, but I still get them.”

 

“That's how you broke your ankle, isn't it. You had a nightmare and tried to get up from your bed.”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“You called out my name, Quinn. Do you want to tell me about it?” She lifts her head and gives him a consoling smile. 

 

“Not really." 

 

“Okay,” she nods. “I get it. But you don't have keep pushing me away. You think you'll scare me away eventually, so you… you're trying to get rid of me first.” Carrie looks at him compassionately, restraining her instinct to hold his hand again.

 

He doesn't respond. He just looks down into his own coffee mug, steam rising, creating a visible sheen on his pale skin. 

 

“Just like three years ago when you went off to Syria. You never gave me a chance to give you my answer,” she gives into her urge and reaches over to gently touch his cheek, needing to add to the intimacy of the moment. 

 

Finally looking up, he backs his head away from her, forcing the retrieval of her hand. “Carrie. I… I'm not the same as I was then. I'll never be that person again. But I was fucked up back then, too, and I never should have even asked..." 

 

“Quinn—”

 

He grabs her chin roughly, a sudden intensity exploding out of him.

 

“Look at me!  Really look at me, Carrie.” His eyes widen as his trembling hand turns her head to face the windows. “Now look across the courtyard into that psychopath’s apartment. He killed her, his damaged wife. Probably chopped her body into pieces. This woman he used to love.  _ He _ could do that to her.”

 

He finally lets go of her, already hating himself for his words and horrified by his actions, but knowing he can't stop what has already been set in motion. 

 

Carrie's chin begins to wobble, the tears streaming, ceaseless and abundant, as she twists her head back to face him. 

 

“You think that could be us one day? You’re a stubborn, opinionated asshole, but I don't think you would drive me to murder,” she scoffs, a small smile breaking through her tears. 

 

Carrie's face darkens as she implores Quinn to understand. “That will never be us. I got better and got out. You'll get better, too. You've made so much progress already.”

 

“Carrie, I —” 

 

“No!  Let me finish.”

 

“Carrie!” he shouts. He takes a deep breath in, calming himself, then tells her the biggest lie of his life. “I  _ don't _ love you.”

 

She freezes, her eyes boring into his. “Fuck you, Quinn!  That's total bullshit! I know you love me!” She wipes the tears from her face and inhales sharply, her voice shaking. “I read your letter. The one you wrote to me in case you didn't make it back from Syria.”

 

“What?!” Quinn stutters, unable to disguise his horror and surprise. 

 

“Dar gave it to me when you were in the coma. We never thought you would survive.” 

 

His voice softens as he gazes down to the floor, no longer able to sustain eye contact. “Well, it's still true, Carrie. I'm sorry. I don't love you. At least not in that way. Not anymore,” his voice trails off, as he leans his head back on the couch.

 

Carrie stands and moves towards the windows, wiping away the remaining tears that stain her cheeks. 

 

She stares out into the starless night sky, minutes going by; a seemingly never ending silence filling the dark room. 

 

“I'd never thought I'd ever say this to you, but you're a fucking coward and a liar, Quinn,” she says, her voice is quiet and trembling, her back still turned away from him. “But that's fine, if that's what you want — out of fear or some misguided sense of selflessness. I'll still be here for you. I meant what I said. I won't abandon you.” 

 

Quinn's eyes follow her as she picks up her mug from the table and goes into the kitchen; the nausea rising up from his stomach, knowing how much he's hurt her — again. Feeling like nothing he ever does is right. 

 

_ There are only wrong choices… in this fucked up world we've made for ourselves.  _

 

———

 

“Carrie!  He's on the move!”

 

Carrie rushes in from the kitchen to see Quinn back in his wheelchair, binoculars in hand. 

 

She quickly grabs her jacket and phone, looks briefly at Quinn, and heads out the door. 

 

Quinn calls her phone immediately, putting her on speaker, watching through the binoculars as Berenson locks his front door and heads into the corridor of his apartment building with his large metal suitcase of drug samples rolling behind him. 

 

“Yeah,” Carrie answers, her breath hurried. 

 

“He should be coming out any second now. Probably out of the front entrance. He has his sample case with him, which I'm betting is not filled with Ambien. More likely, Mrs. Berenson.”

 

“I don't see him yet. Wait. I got him… fuck!  He just got into a cab. There's no way I can follow. He went north. I got the cab company name, but I lost him.”

 

“Fuck! Just come back.” He hangs up his phone.

 

Carrie comes back into the apartment and plops down on the couch, leaning forward with her hands tugging at the front of her hair. 

 

“Why don't you get some sleep? You can use the bedroom. I'll stay up and watch.” 

 

“Fine." She gets up, refusing to look in his direction. “Goodnight, Quinn,” she says flatly, as she walks into the bedroom and closes the door. 

 

Quinn brings the whiskey bottle from the kitchen into the living room and parks his chair in the shadows in front of the window. He drinks. Not so much that he passes out, but just enough to not feel sick to his stomach about his conversation with Carrie. He stays awake long enough to see Berenson return with the suitcase and leave once more, shortly after, for about two hours. 

 

It’s close to four a.m. when Berenson comes in for the night. It's not too long after that Quinn finally finds sleep. 

 

———

 

It's nine in the morning when the doorbell rings and wakes him up. Carrie comes from the bedroom and answers the door, wearing just his t-shirt. Even only half-awake, he still gets a semi at the sight of her. 

 

“Carrie. I didn't expect to find you here,” Dar says, giving her a quick once-over as he walks into the room and sits down close to Quinn. 

 

He throws a small brown bag on the coffee table. “I got you low-fat muffins. You looked like you put on a few pounds when I last saw you," Dar raises his eyebrows and looks towards Carrie.

 

“If you'll excuse me, I need to get dressed.”

 

“So, Peter,” Dar’s eyes follow Carrie into the bedroom, then he smirks at Quinn, “finally. Well done. I'm impressed considering your current… condition.”

 

“What do you have for me?” Quinn says, cutting straight through Dar’s taunts. 

 

“Colonel Berenson? He’s got a clean record. No disciplinary actions during his tenure. He was well liked by his peers and his subordinates. His psych profile was unremarkable.” 

 

“What about his finances? He filed bankruptcy back in 2013.”

 

“Who knows? Gambling maybe? I can tell you that his wife collects disability, but has no life insurance policy.”

 

Carrie walks back into the room, as Dar gets up, his hands folded behind his back, and stares out the window. “Is that him?”

 

“Yes,” Carrie answers assuredly, prompting Dar to turn towards Quinn; his features, distorted, taking on a demonic form from the shadows cast by the sun streaming in through the windows.

 

“He's no murderer, if that's what you want to know,” Dar declares confidently. 

 

Quinn pauses, taken aback momentarily by Dar’s devilish appearance. “Really? He's got financial issues. His wife disappears in the middle of the night despite never having left that apartment in four years… He couldn't fucking stand her—” 

 

“You've never been married,” Dar interrupts. “That's how old married couples are — so I've been told.”

 

“The guy made two trips last night with his sample case. So he's making sales calls at at two in the morning?” Quinn says, pleading his position.

 

“Maybe... you think the late Mrs. Berenson was in that case? You're looking into people’s private lives — not everything can be explained. You're not a spy anymore. But I get why you are so off on this, Peter, considering your brain’s been recently... scrambled. But you, Mathison? He's got you convinced?”

 

“Yeah, he has,” Carrie retorts. “I do know something about psychological disorders, Dar, and there's no way this woman, after four years of isolation, just gets up and moves out on a whim." 

 

“So you're going with that — your… intuition?”

 

“No, I'm using my skills as an agent for fourteen years. Which in case you've forgotten, had been fairly successful at tracking down terrorists and seeing through people's bullshit.”

 

“So where is she? The wife. No one saw her leave that night,” Quinn adds.

 

“Oh, right. I almost forgot." Dar takes a large envelope from his coat pocket, opens it up and takes out it's contents. He throws the photographs down on the coffee table, splaying out like a Japanese fan. “They look familiar? If not, that's Mr. and Mrs. Berenson at the train station on the night she went… missing. He put her on a train to San Antonio, Texas. I've got photos of her getting off the train as well.”

 

Quinn picks up the pictures, his eyes narrowing as he looks them over meticulously.

 

“Texas, huh?...Fucking Mexico! That’s where he'll meet her. His girlfriend. That's  _ not _ his wife in the pictures.”

 

Dar walks over to the windows and looks across the courtyard. 

 

“Give it up, Peter. Why don't you spend more time looking at that cute little dancer over there? That would be a much better use of your time.”

 

He walks towards the door, as Carrie picks up the photographs that Quinn threw back on the table. 

 

“If you get any  _ real _ evidence, or if you need more muffins, give me a call,” Dar says dismissively as he exits the apartment. 

 

Carrie moves closer to Quinn, letting out a loud sigh in frustration. 

 

“You really think this isn't her?” Carrie questions, examining the photos one by one. 

 

“I don't know… motherfucker. Maybe he's right. I'm not a spy anymore. I'm not a soldier. I'm… I shouldn't be doing this.”

 

“I'm certainly not the one to preach rear window ethics, but if you expected help from Dar Adal, well, maybe your brain  _ is _ scrambled,” Carrie grins, as her eyes meet his for only a mere moment, before turning away, feeling the awkwardness and tension between them. 

 

She puts the photos back on the table, and grabs her purse. “I’m gonna go home and change and maybe do a little digging myself. I'll be back later.” Even the small smile on her face can't hide the pain in her voice. “Do you need anything else before I leave?”

 

Quinn shakes his head, unable to ask any more of her. He's accepted far too much already, while knowing he's incapable of giving anything back in return. 

 

Lockhart’s maudlin piano tune begins to play from across the courtyard as Carrie opens the door to leave. She turns to Quinn, just for a brief moment, before stepping out of his apartment; out of his prison; out of his world. 

 

He replays that last moment of her in his head, like the ending of a tragic movie — the music, Carrie’s tentative movements, her lovely but sorrowful face drained of all hope, rewinding in front of his eyes. He almost expects the room to fade to black while the credits flash before him:   _ The end. _

  
  


———

  
  
  
  


“Your girlfriend came to see me at the clinic,” Astrid reports flatly, as she massages Quinn's spasming back muscles after another grueling session of therapy. “She seems worried about you.”

 

“Yeah?” Quinn responds, his body tensing even more, but remaining motionless, his head facing down on the table. 

 

“She was asking if I had gotten any more information from the neighbors about the Berensons.”

 

“And?”

 

“I didn't. I already told you that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You're  _ really _ talkative today,” she says sarcastically. “I also told her we aren't fucking.”

 

Quinn pops his head up and twists to look at Astrid. “She asked?”

 

“She didn't, but she seemed concerned. About the two of us. Fucking.”

 

“Are we done here?” Quinn pushes himself up to a sitting position, not giving her time to answer.

 

Quinn gazes out the window, desperately wanting to know what Carrie’s reaction was to Astrid’s comment, but not daring to ask the question. 

 

“Fuck!  Berenson. He's packing.”

 

Astrid grabs the binoculars from the table and looks across the courtyard into Berenson’s bedroom. 

 

“He's clearing everything out.” 

 

“Motherfucker! Hand me my phone.” 

 

Astrid hands Quinn his phone just as the front door opens and Carrie enters the room, coffee in hand, trying to quickly analyze the tense situation she's walked into. 

 

“Dar. It's Peter. Berenson's packing. If we don't move in fast on this guy, he'll be in the fucking wind. Call me back.” Quinn hangs up, his jaw clenched as he runs his hand through his hair. 

 

“What's going on?” Carrie asks, 

 

“Looks like Berenson is taking off. Can someone help me off of this goddamn table?” Quinn barks, angry and disgusted by his helplessness. 

 

Astrid puts down the binoculars and helps Quinn get dressed before settling him back into his wheelchair. 

 

Carrie, trying to disguise her feelings of  uselessness and jealousy, picks up the binoculars, looking in on Berenson. “It looks like we still have some time. He doesn't seem to be moving with any urgency." She turns to face Quinn, “I did get some interesting information on the wife. She had a son out of wedlock when she was a teenager. Her parents raised him as their own. About four years ago, all three of them were killed in a car accident.”

 

“So that's why she hasn't left the apartment. But that doesn't give us any more of a motive,” Astrid turns towards Carrie, sitting down on the armrest of the couch next to Quinn.

 

“No, it doesn't. But I also got information from their landlord. Apparently they're behind on rent, but haven't given any notice that they were planning on moving out.” 

 

“Well, we can't get the police involved unless we have evidence and we can't get evidence unless we can get into his apartment. So I think we're fucked,” Quinn’s jaw clenches, as he tilts his head downward.

 

“Let me think on it. I'll figure something out,” Carrie says, running her hand through her hair. 

 

Quinn, frustrated and not wanting to be alone with these two woman, starts to wheel himself towards the bedroom. “Astrid, will you help me get into bed? I think I need some real sleep." 

 

———

 

Carrie is in the kitchen making coffee when Astrid joins her. “You want a cup?” Carrie asks, trying to make peace with this woman who has obviously grown to care about Quinn in their short acquaintance. 

 

“Sure. Thanks,” Astrid responds, surprising Carrie by accepting the mug with a small smile. 

 

They return to the couch, both quietly sipping their coffee, before Astrid finally breaks the silence. “So, you’re not fucking him either?”

 

“You really don't have any sort of filter, do you?” Carrie's laughs at her audacity. 

 

“No, I don't. So, why aren't you... fucking him?” 

 

Carrie puts her mug down on the table and looks into Astrid’s eyes, seeing her sincerity; knowing she can trust this woman with her heart, despite their turbulent beginnings.

 

“It's complicated. But basically, we've had really shitty timing,” she says as her eyes well up with tears. 

 

Astrid puts her hand on Carrie's, “Yeah. I can see that.” She lifts her head towards the windows and inhales sharply. “So, what's this plan of yours and how can I help?”

 

———

 

It's worse than the nightmares, sometimes. That peaceful moment between sleep and wakefulness when reality hasn't set in yet — where he still has a normal body; a normal mind. But as his awareness increases, the memories and pain come flooding in, too fast for him to process, and he can only lie there, trembling; crying like a child in the darkness of his room. 

 

He sits up with a grunt, swinging his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. With the sleeve of his shirt, he dries his face, making sure to hide any evidence of his suffering from her.

 

“Astrid?” He calls out, hoping she, and not Carrie, is there to help him back into his chair. 

 

Only seconds later, light from the hallway fills his room, temporarily blinding him as the door is slowly opened, squeaking; he hears her softly say his name. 

 

“Where's Astrid?” He asks groggily, as the splotch of blackness in his vision fades into purple, then yellow, before gradually dissolving, allowing her face to come into focus. 

 

“It's late. She went to pick us up some dinner. Are you hungry?”

 

“Yeah. I am.”

 

Carrie comes into the room and sits next to him on the bed. “Are you okay?” She asks, her voice soft and tender. 

 

“No. I'm not okay,” Quinn replies calmly. He lowers his head, unable to hold her gaze. Too tired and weak in the moment to hide his vulnerability. Too desperate for her to consider pushing her away. Too afraid that she'll finally realize he's beyond a resurrection. “I'll never be okay again.” 

 

He cocks his head, glancing at her from the corner of his eye before adjusting his body to face her. Then, leaning forward, he inches closer to her, his forehead coming to rest on her shoulder, breathing her in as he puts his hands around her back, trying to pull her even closer.

 

Carrie puts her hand on his chin and lifts his face. Her pupils, dilated in the dim light, reflect his own distorted image back to him. He wonders if that's how she sees him — this funhouse mirror version in which he views himself or through an enchanted mirror, blind to his defects. 

 

As if reading his mind, she answers him by slowly moving towards him and placing a soft kiss on his lips; her hand moving to take his as she retreats, glancing up at him with a reassuring smile. 

 

“I'm so fucking sorry,” he whispers, his voice earnest, shaking his head in dismay.

 

The sound of the front door opening and closing startles them both. He pulls his hand from hers, again, being the one to break their connection. Looking down at his hand, he can still feel the warmth from her touch as it radiates to his broken limbs, then dissipates; replaced by a cold chill that penetrates his body, causing him to shudder in response.

  
  


———

  
  


“So, what's this plan of yours?” Quinn asks after he finishes his dinner, sitting in his wheelchair, while Astrid and Carrie are on the couch; their empty plates in front of them on the coffee table. 

 

Carrie stands and paces back and forth in front of the couch before stopping to face Quinn. “We need to get the police into his apartment, right? So the only way to do that without a search warrant is to have him caught in the act of committing another crime.”

 

“No, Carrie. No fucking way!”

 

“Look, we don't have the resources of the government, so we're going to have do this old school. I'm thinking I can slip him a note under his door, to set up a meeting for tomorrow night. Make him nervous. Make him think that we're after money. Blackmail. When he leaves to meet me, I'll break in. When I don't show, he'll come back and find me in his apartment. You call the police and tell them you're witnessing a woman being attacked. The police come, investigate the scene. They find the evidence.”

 

“Christ, Carrie..”

 

“I can handle Berenson.”

 

“There's something else we saw while you were sleeping,” Astrid breaks in. “The garden, in the courtyard. We think part of Mrs. Berenson may be buried there. There was a dog sniffing and digging around there today and Berenson seemed to get really upset about it. We watched him come out of his apartment just to push the dog away, then covered it back up with soil. I think we should dig it up, later tonight, when he's asleep.”

 

“I've always wanted to meet Mrs. Berenson,” Carrie smirks as she and Astrid exchange glances, Astrid chuckling in response.

 

Quinn pauses, his jaw clenched, not knowing or wanting to know how the two women went from mortal enemies to best girlfriends within a few hours. He quickly realizes that he’s outnumbered. “No way. I don't want either of you near this guy or his fuckin’ garden.”

 

“Quinn. We can get this guy." Carrie’s face now serious, her eyes boring into his, making his already weak limbs, weaker.

 

“I don't know. I need to think,” he replies with agitation; knowing he has no hope of rejecting both of their pleas for justice.

 

Carrie turns off the lights and lifts the shades. 

 

The neighborhood is alive with activity and music this evening as the two former spies and the one amateur search for answers across the courtyard.

 

Lockhart’s performance of Gershwin’s “Someone to Watch Over Me,” seems to be entertaining not only his party guests, but much of the neighborhood, as many have come to their windows to listen to the professional pianist play the old classic. 

 

Fara looks away from her books and dreamily stares off into the night sky.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Diaz share a loving moment as they huddle together on their sofa, her head resting softly on his shoulder; the puppy barking happily along with the music.

 

Mr. Brody puts his arm around Mrs. Brody’s waist and pulls her away from the kitchen sink to share in a slow, romantic dance.

 

Even Allison had found a companion for the evening to enjoy the lovely music with. 

 

But Berenson remains secluded, with his shades closed and only one light on in his bedroom; most likely planning his next move.

 

“Quinn!  Look! Ms. Lonelyhearts,” Carrie’s voice shaking as she puts her hand on Quinn’s shoulder.

 

“Motherfucker!” Quinn growls, looking into Allison’s apartment, watching as her date for the evening starts to get a little too rough with her, trying to force himself on her as she tries to fight him off. 

 

“What should we do? Call the police?” Astrid asks, panicked. 

 

“Where’s your gun, Quinn? I’m going over there.” Carrie starts to hastily rummage through the cabinets under his bookshelves.

 

“No, Carrie. Wait.” Carrie abruptly abandons her search and focuses her attention back to Allison.

 

As they watch the battle continue, Allison is finally able to push the man off of her; hollering at him to leave or she’ll call the police. The man storms out, as Allison sinks to the floor, her head in her hands, sobbing. 

 

After a few minutes, she gets up, pours herself a glass of wine and closes the shades. 

 

“Well, I think I’ve had enough. I’ll be back tomorrow at four o’clock. Goodnight.” Astrid takes one final gulp from her glass of wine before she picks up her bag and exits the apartment, leaving Carrie and Quinn in an awkward silence. 

 

Carrie finally breaks the silence, “I’m delivering the note tonight—when he’s asleep. We’ll dig up Mrs. Berenson tomorrow night and we’ll get this fucker. Okay?”

 

Quinn scans the open windows, thinking the choice to involve himself and the only two people in his life that he gives a shit about, into these strangers' lives should be added to his list of regrettable decisions. 

 

He’s crossed a line, he realizes that. But it’s too late now to turn back.  

 

“Okay. After midnight, you’ll deliver the note.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Day Four Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie delivers the note and gets all wet.  
> Good stuff happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FrangipaniFlower, LeBlanc1 and ascloseasthis for their editing, friendship and support.

Quinn, shrouded in shadow, watches through his scope as the slender figure in the black hoodie easily picks the lock and opens the door of the apartment building across the courtyard. He inhales sharply as a shock of blonde hair peeking out from under her hood shoots into his field of view, before quickly disappearing as the door is carefully closed. _She's in_. Carrie re-emerges only seconds later on the third floor hallway, making her way to the killer’s door as Quinn finally remembers to exhale.

 

A flash of lightning. The rumble of thunder. A single drop of rain on the window sill. Then another. Then hundreds. Thousands. Million of drops distorting his view — every slight movement of his head twisting the outside lights like a kaleidoscope.

 

“Fuck!” Quinn mumbles into his phone. “Carrie. Hurry up.”

 

Carrie slips the envelope under the door.

 

Another light — this one remaining and coming from Berenson’s apartment.

 

“Carrie. Get the fuck out of there. He's awake.”

 

Quinn puts the night scope on his lap and wheels himself closer to the window — trying unsuccessfully to attain a clearer line of sight.

 

“He's moving towards the door... Carrie?” he whispers, but all he can hear is static on the other end of the line, then nothing. The line is dead. “Fuck!”

 

He thinks if he can just open the window, just a bit, maybe he'll be able to see what's going on — make sure Carrie got out without being made.

 

He stretches his arms out, but still can't reach the window latch. So he slides himself forward on his chair, allowing his fingertips to just brush up against the latch. _Just a little farther._

 

But as he stretches out as far as he can, the wheelchair tips over, spilling him onto the floor, the chair landing only inches away from his casted leg.

 

“Motherfucker.”

 

Ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, he crawls closer to the window, desperate to find Carrie, but the steady downpour makes it impossible.

 

Minutes go by and a wave of panic overcomes him. What if Berenson caught her? What if he hurts her?

 

As he stares hopelessly out through the rain streaked window, he thinks about Missouri and the conversation he’d had with Carrie the day before. _Would her answer really have been a “yes” back then? And even if it was, it never would have worked, right? Right?_

 

He lies back down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling while feelings of guilt, fear, and self-loathing flood his addled mind. “Fuck me,” he mutters quietly to himself, simultaneously praying for Carrie’s safety and for a lightning bolt to come through the window to put him out of his misery.

 

Finally, the door opens and Carrie enters the apartment — soaking wet and dripping all over the floor.

 

“Jesus, Quinn. What the fuck happened?” Carrie runs across the dark room and helps Quinn up and onto couch; he feels the cold wetness of her clothes touch his skin.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks, her face twisted with concern, standing in front of him after getting him settled.

 

“I'm fine. The rain on the windows — I couldn't see you. I… I was worried,” Quinn stutters, still breathless from the incident.

 

“Yeah, well, it was close. I had to climb out onto the fire escape off of the hallway and hide until he went back into his apartment,” she explains, wiping some of the water away from her face.

 

“So, he didn't see you,” Quinn sighs, the darkness in the room hiding the fear in his eyes, but the slight tremble in his voice surely giving him away.

 

“Quinn. I'm fine.” A small smile crosses her lips as she moves closer and kneels in front of him, placing her hand on his cheek. “You were worried,” she says softly. Their eyes meet  but he immediately turns away, looking beyond her, searching for something unknown out into the distance.

 

“Fuck, Carrie, you're dripping on me,” he huffs, his attention drawn back to her.

 

She smiles— his curtness catching her off guard as her hand slides down his cheek, to his chin, then to his chest, her wet fingertips leaving behind a trail that leads directly to his heart.

 

“Quinn,” she breathes, her smile gone now, but her hand remaining frozen in place.

 

He finally turns back to her as tears begin to roll down her cheeks, quickly vanishing as they blend in with the droplets of rain water that remain stagnant on her face.

 

“I want you, Quinn,” she pleads, her voice almost a whisper.

 

“Carrie…I —”

 

“No, Quinn. Not this time. Not now. No more lies.”

 

She stands up slowly and moves over to the windows, lowering each shade one by one while Quinn watches intently, his mind racing, panicked, wanting her desperately, but afraid of letting her into the darkness that consumes him.

 

She crosses the room to turn on the end table lamp, then stands before him again, this time _really_ seeing her, the soft glow of light illuminating her features, determined and strong, but her eyes showing tenderness and vulnerability.

 

“I want you,” she repeats, this time with controlled confidence as she removes her jacket, dropping it to the floor.

 

Quinn watches her, mesmerized, his body frozen in disbelief as she slowly lowers her pants and carefully steps out of them.

 

Next she peels off her shirt, moving closer to him until she is standing directly in front of him, her white underclothes wet and translucent, allowing him a preview of what's to come.

 

A feeling of tranquility comes over him as he makes the conscious decision to turn off his mind, only wanting to listen to his heart; not caring about the consequences he knows he will eventually face.

 

He reaches out and touches her thighs, gently caressing them as his hands move up to the elastic on her panties, his gaze lagging behind his hands as he begins to pull them down. He knows this is it, their moment, and there won't be any turning back now.

 

She steps out of them, unhooks her bra and pulls it off, then kneels in front of him again, looking even more beautiful than in his fantasies.

 

Their eyes lock as she carefully removes his pants and his boxers over his cast in one motion, releasing him, his body fully responsive to her touch.

 

“Carrie,” he says her name again, this time with certainty and with all the love and desire that he's finally willing to give in to.

 

Those five minutes lying on the floor, helpless, thinking she could be hurt or dead. The thought that he may have lost her without ever really showing her how he feels. The thought of the lie that he told her, that he's been telling himself, because he was too afraid to admit the truth — all of it had crashed down on him and made him realize that she's worth any sacrifice. He's risked his life for her before, how could it be worse to risk his heart?

 

She looks up at him, her blue eyes boring into his and lifts herself off the floor, straddling his lap — her knees pressing into the couch, her body hovering over his.

 

He enjoys the momentary loss of control, excitedly relinquishing his power as her hands slide up his sides, helping him remove his shirt — the last barrier separating them before she wraps her arms around his neck and leans in tentatively, her lips touching his lips, soft and gentle, before pulling back, their eyes fixed in an unwavering gaze.

 

He reaches down, both hands now on her ass as she rubs herself against him, his tip making contact with her entrance, grazing it, so warm and wet, needing to use every ounce of self control he has not to immediately lift her up and slam her down onto his hard shaft.

 

Instead, he pulls her closer, moving his one hand to the soft skin of her breast, tracing it teasingly before slowly adding more pressure to firmly knead it. He uses his fingertips, lightly, to just graze her nipple, feeling it harden under his touch. Carrie gasps, moving her body closer to him, as Quinn lowers his head, finally taking her nipple into his mouth, sucking, licking and scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin, causing her body to tremble with excitement.

“Fuck, Quinn.... I need you... inside me,” she pleads, rising up so that their bodies align, then immediately lowering herself onto him as Quinn lets out a loud groan, filling her, watching her face as they merge, Carrie looking so fucking beautiful and feeling so tight and wet around him.

 

It's almost too much for him — too erotic, too overwhelming — all the years of wanting her, needing her, loving her, and now, being inside of her.

 

She begins to rock her hips but he immediately stops her movement. “Wait,” he whispers, his eyes moist, entranced by her, by his love. She smiles as he gently touches her cheek, then moves his hand to stroke her damp hair.  

 

He looks her over, taking the time to memorize every line on her face, every curve of her body; not wanting to ever forget this moment of finally possessing her.

 

“Christ, Carrie,” he breathes, something in him snapping as if his body is finally catching up with his mind. His hands move to her hips, his strong arms lifting her up so that he almost slips out of her, then pushing her back down on him with a grunt, going deeper, needing the penetration to go beyond her body and into her soul. He repeats that motion faster and harder each time, his eyes never leaving hers, their breathing in perfect unison, Carrie’s moans becoming louder with each downward thrust.

 

“I want to see you come. I need it, Carrie,” he rasps, moving his good hand in between them as his thumb finds her clit while his other arm stays on her hip, guiding her body; her fingernails scraping against his skin as they travel down his back.

 

Letting out a loud moan, she rocks her hips while his thumb holds steady, taking control of the pace and intensity of their lovemaking. Then, leaning in closer, she gently rests her forehead on his before tightly wrapping her arms around his back, so that almost every part of their bodies are physically connected; her movements stilling in the moment.

 

“I love you, Quinn. So much,” she whispers breathlessly.

 

Her words wash over him, entering his soul and chasing away the darkness that has inhabited that space in him for so long. Because this time, he believes her. Not out of desperation or fear or longing, but because he can see it, feel it, hear it — in her eyes and in her touch and in her voice.

 

“Carrie,” he sighs, thrusting his hips to meet hers, needing to be deeper inside of her, her words still ringing in his ears, nearly taking him over the edge. But somehow he manages to hold back, wanting to extend her pleasure, needing to make sure she comes first.

 

He adds a small circular motion with his thumb, and watches her face as she arches her back, her cheeks flushing, her pupils dilating.

 

She rocks her hips faster, her breathing accelerating until she finally comes, screaming out, Quinn feeling her body contracting around him, bringing him to the point of no return.

 

Not able to wait for Carrie to recover, he places both of his hands on her ass, lifting her up and thrusting her back down onto him three times before releasing into her, feeling waves of intense pleasure surging through his body, a euphoria beyond anything he's ever experienced.

 

It seems like minutes go by before his breathing finally steadies and he can form a coherent thought.  But it's the warmth of Carrie’s arms that are wrapped tightly around him that rouse his body and the vibration of her heart beating against his cheek resting on her breast, that jolts him out of his bewildered, dazed state.

He gazes up at her, a grin lighting up her face. “You’re beautiful, Carrie.” His hand reaches up to wipe away the single tear that rolls down her cheek. He leans in closer, as does she, their lips melting together for a soft, lingering kiss; Quinn's eyes remaining open, wanting to make sure it was all real and not some post-stroke hallucination.

 

Carrie pulls back, her eyes focused on his face as a smile crosses her lips.

 

“You’re beautiful, too,” she chuckles, watching as his dimpled grin reaches his eyes. “Fuck, Quinn, I didn’t even realize you have dimples. I don’t think I’ve ever _actually_ seen you smile before,” she teases, slowly leaning in for another kiss, their lips parting, fitting together perfectly as they gently taste  and explore each other from within. Carrie sighs sweetly, as their kiss deepens, Quinn feeling a new twinge of excitement, even with his cock buried deep inside her, still twitching from the aftershocks of his orgasm.  

 

Carrie slowly pulls away, her hand caressing the back of his neck before traveling down his arm. She lifts herself off of him, plopping down next to him on the couch, her head coming to rest on his strong shoulder.

 

Quinn enjoys a comfortable silence before the shock finally sets in. What they just did, what she said, what he felt, what he feels now holding her slender body next to his. But as the doubts start creeping back into his head, he breathes in deeply and exhales, hoping to physically expel all the negativity from his body — wanting this moment of peaceful happiness to remain forever.

 

Quinn wraps his arm around her while contemplating what to say — hoping that she, again, speaks first.

 

“Shit. I’m fucking freezing,” she blurts out, Quinn sensing a little uneasiness from Carrie as well. He reaches over to grab the blanket from the arm of the couch and gently covers her with it, his arm remaining wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her tightly into his body.

 

“Better?” he asks lovingly, as he starts to rub her arm in an attempt to create some heat.

 

“Yes. Much,” she yawns, snuggling closer into his body.

 

“So,” he clears his throat, “you think you can spend the night? With me? In my bed?” he asks, his voice hoarse, his hand caressing her naked thigh.

 

“It’s two o’clock in the morning and we’re both naked — where else would I go?” She laughs, turning to face him.

 

“The Brodys may still be up. I heard they were looking to do a threesome,” he teases, starting to feel a bit more relaxed in the moment.

 

“The newlyweds? Hmmm,” she muses. “Nah. He's not my type,” biting her lower lip, her eyes gazing up at him adoringly.

 

She pauses, taking a deep breath in, her voice earnest now, “Quinn, this is a good thing, the two of us. I promise it is,” she says, her eyes searching his for acceptance, for his faith in her words and in her love.

 

“So this is real.  We finally happened. And _maybe_ this will even happen again? Soon?” Quinn raises his brow, a devilish grin on his face as his hand slides all the way up her thigh, his fingertips just grazing her inner lips before slowly retreating.

 

“Quinn,” she sighs, “it's tempting but,... how about we get a little sleep first? And then, I’d like to do that again... and again... and again,” her voice trailing off, her eyes gently closing.

 

“Carrie?” He nudges her, enough to jolt her awake. “Did I fuck you unconscious?”

 

“I think you did, actually,” she laughs, “That was... fucking incredible.” She nestles in tighter to him.

 

“We’ll be much more comfortable in my bed, but I need your help. I want it,” he confesses with some reluctance.

 

She lifts her head, gazing into his eyes, “Of course I’ll help you. I want that, too. I want you.”

 

_______________________

 

It only took a few minutes after helping Quinn into bed before Carrie drifted off to sleep; her naked body curled up next to him, her arm stretched out across his chest.

 

Afraid she will vanish if he closes his eyes, he watches her — her chest rising and falling with each breath, looking angelic with her golden hair in waves, fanning out across the white pillow, one obstinate strand extending across her jawline, beautifully framing her face.

 

Afraid that their lovemaking was only a dream, he fights sleep — his hand softly stroking the arm that covers him; her warmth radiating up from her body and into his, calming his mind.

 

Afraid that it was all a lie, he turns and places a gentle kiss on her forehead, whispering softly, “I love you”  — no longer wanting to be silent in his love for her; reassuring himself that there isn’t a magical spell that will be broken if he says it aloud; if he rejoices in his own happiness.

 

Carrie stirs, her eyelids fluttering open as a small smile crosses her lips. She pulls him closer to her, a soft sigh escaping her before gravity wins and her heavy lids close once more, drifting back to sleep.

 

With that one look, Quinn’s fears suddenly melt away and he finally finds his own peaceful sleep.

 

——————————————————

 

The morning daylight streaming into the small bedroom awakens Carrie, as the cloudy memories of the previous night slowly float back into her consciousness, bringing with it a feeling of peace and contentment.

 

The passion, the intensity, the tenderness — it was better than she had ever imagined it could be, with him or with any man.  And he didn’t push her away. And she didn’t run away.

 

_So this is real love._

 

She belongs to him and he belongs to her. He can’t take it back, can’t deny that it doesn’t exist anymore even if he didn't say it out loud – it was declared, wordlessly. She’s in his bed, and he’s next to her, his arm around her waist, spooning her, his warm breath on her back.   

 

As the details of their encounter begin to flood her mind, a twinge of excitement starts to build within her. She wiggles herself closer to him and slowly starts rub, hoping to gently wake him, feeling him getting hard against her ass in his sleep, his cock just lightly making contact with her rim, exciting her further.

 

He sighs softly, his eyes still closed, as his hand moves up to her breast, his fingertips just grazing her nipple.

 

Her heartbeat quickens as she spreads her legs slightly, inviting him in — craving him, desperately wanting him inside of her again.

 

“Carrie,” he whispers, “you’re still here.”

 

“Of course I’m still here. I… I… Oh god, Quinn,” she inhales sharply as he enters her from behind, pushing in slowly, his hand traveling down and finding her center, stroking it, matching the rhythm of his first few gentle thrusts.

 

His lips find the back of her neck and follow the gentle slope to her shoulder, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses in its wake. Then, lifting his head up, he whispers in her ear, “And this isn't a dream? I'm really fucking you right now?” he asks sleepily, his voice low and husky, as he continues his restrained movements.

 

“Yes,” she breathes, barely able to get out a response, feeling so incandescently happy that she couldn't be a hundred percent sure herself that this wasn't a beautiful dream.

 

She reaches her hand back to his ass, nudging him to speed up his languorous lovemaking. Then finding the sensitive skin of his perineum, she strokes it, sending a rush of excitement through his body, awakening him completely and shattering his last restraint as he moans loudly in her ear.

 

“Fuck, Carrie, you’re gonna make me come…now,” he mutters, his words staggering out of him as he rolls her body forward so that she's partially on her stomach, his casted leg between her scissored legs, driving into her faster and deeper, his deft fingers still working her clit.

 

“Quinn...,” she stutters in between her own moans, the new position sending Carrie into a frenzy — Quinn’s strong body pounding into her, dominating her, controlling her pleasure, and yet she feels so safe in his arms. She's willing and wanting to surrender completely to him; welcoming this loss of control like never before.  And his words, exciting her even more — her orgasm building rapidly, her body convulsing while she goes over the edge and releases.

 

It only takes one more thrust and he’s gone, too, coming undone, exploding into her with a loud grunt, while her body still clenches around him, enjoying the last waves of her own climax .

 

They roll back over on their sides, as Quinn buries his face in her hair, their bodies finally still, feeling the vibrations of his rapid heartbeat pounding from his chest into her back and all the way through to her own heart.

 

She slowly turns to face him, seeing the rapture in his eyes; the delight in his dimpled grin.

 

“Good morning,” she says with a chuckle, “Want some coffee?”

 

“No. Not yet. I just want to lie here for a while, if that’s okay with you,” he whispers, moving his hand up to stroke her cheek.

 

Carrie smiles, “Sure. Rest,” she says quietly, her hand touching his hand as his eyelids close.

 

She watches him for a few minutes, her heart bursting with joy to see him so peaceful, so happy. She’s amazed at how sweet and tender he is with her, such a stark contrast to the anger and resentment he had shown her over the past several months of his recovery.

 

Her mind flashes back to the hospital in Berlin, when he had awoken from the coma, the respirator just being removed, and she would sit for hours by his bedside, watching him breathe, watching his monitors, terrified every time his oxygen level dipped below ninety. Driving the nurses crazy with worry. Driving herself crazy.

 

She brushes those bad memories away, kisses his cheek, noticing a slight upward curl to his lips as she quietly gets out of bed.  This is a new beginning for both of them, together, and she will do everything in her power to put the past behind them and only look to the future.

 

——————————————

 

Carrie stands, leaning against the counter sipping her coffee, transfixed by the dust particles floating in and out of the band of sunlight entering the room through the small kitchen window; reminding her of snowflakes during a winter’s first storm.

 

Her mind wanders off, imagining what spending Christmas with Quinn and Franny together would be like.  To be a family. She smiles and laughs at herself, at her own childish romantic fantasies — _but maybe_ ….

 

“Successful night?”

 

“Jesus!” Carrie jumps, startled to see Astrid standing at the kitchen door giving her a once over. “You scared the shit out of me.”

 

“Sorry. I _did_ knock, but no one answered, so I let myself in. So, success?” Astrid raises her brow, her head cocked in Carrie’s direction.

 

“What do you mean?” Carrie’s eyes narrow, her heart still racing from the shock of Astrid’s stealthy movements.

 

_The woman would make an excellent spy._

 

“The note. Did you deliver it?”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Yes,” Carrie says, clearing her throat. “Berenson definitely got it.”

 

“What did you think I meant?” Astrid deadpans, her hand moving to rest on her hip.

 

“Nothing. I mean, the note, of course,” she affirms, hoping that Astrid somehow isn’t aware of her pretense, but having been a spy for so long, Carrie knows when she’s been made.

 

“Are you okay, Carrie? You seem a bit…fucked...up,” Astrid asks, her brow furrowing, her voice earnest with just a hint of sarcasm.

 

“I'm fine,” Carrie fires back, taking her coffee and walking past Astrid with her head down as she enters the living room.

 

Carrie’s eyes dart around the room while trying to inconspicuously pull down the long t-shirt that just barely covers her naked lower half.

 

“They're right there,” Astrid says flatly, pointing at the pile of damp clothing on the floor. “Your panties. That's what you're looking for, right?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks. It started raining when I delivered the note. I was all wet when I came back.”

 

“I'm sure you were,” Astrid smirks, her eyes not leaving Carrie’s flustered face.

 

Carrie places her coffee cup on the table as Astrid turns, casually walking over to the middle window to raise the blinds, giving Carrie the opportunity to pick the panties off of the top of the pile and slip them on.

 

“Well, it looks like you had a good morning. Or maybe a good night. Or both, perhaps?” She simpers, still facing the outside.

 

“Coffee?” Carrie asks, already heading in the direction of the kitchen, trying to ignore Astrid’s taunts.

 

“Sure....So, how was he?” Astrid calls out, a real smile finally breaking through her typically expressionless face as she makes herself comfortable on the couch, awaiting Carrie’s return. “Great, I bet. He’s got those, uh, gigantische Hände, right?”

 

Carrie returns from the kitchen with another cup of coffee, her cheeks red as she moves to the couch, handing Astrid her coffee. “Is really nothing off limits for you?” Carrie snickers, shaking her head, then scooping the rest of the clothing off of the floor and putting them in the small washing machine next to the kitchen door.

 

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?” She pauses, rolling her eyes. “But that’s a thing, right? Big hands, big Schwanz?”

 

Carrie inhales deeply before returning to sit next to Astrid on the couch with her own cup of coffee.

 

“Seriously, Carrie. I'm happy for you both.” Astrid smiles sincerely, leaning over to place her hand on Carrie’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “And maybe... Peter will stop being such a pain in the ass, now that he's gotten laid.” Both women immediately erupt in a fit of giggles, like a couple of preteen girls talking about sex for the first time.

 

“Is he still sleeping?” Astrid finally manages to get out, after their laughter trails off.  “Can you give me some details about last night?... With the note and Berenson, of course.”

 

“I delivered it as planned. We asked for a meet tonight, nine o’clock, at the bar a few blocks down the street,” Carrie answers, her face transformed, conveying the serious nature of what will soon take place.

 

“But what else did it say?” Astrid’s expression matching Carrie’s intensity.

 

_“What have you done with her?”_

 

“Simple, but gets the point across. What now?”

 

“Now, we wait.”  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter coming soon!


	5. Day Four Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn has another nightmare. Quinn argues with Astrid, then argues with Carrie, with some brief nudity (full frontal) in between. The mystery concludes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to my editors, consultants, and dear friends: FrangipaniFlower, LeBlanc1 and ascloseasthis.

  


He’s in the chamber again, pain throughout his body, gasping for every breath. He looks out through the glass wall and sees her. Just a cloudy image of golden hair at first, but he can feel it's her. Carrie. She's alone this time as she moves steadily toward him, her face coming into focus, her lips curling up in a smile. Relief overcomes him as he reaches out to her, pressing his hand up against the glass that separates them, pleading wordlessly for her help. Moving closer, she places her hand on the transparent surface, mirroring his hand, connecting them together. The glass immediately melts, dissolving into nothing, allowing her to take his hand, their fingers intertwined and lead him out of his prison  — freeing him. She turns to look at him, walking backward now, her face beautiful and happy. He sees the adoration in her eyes, the love, identical to the way she looked at him when they had made love for the first time.  

 

Behind her, a man suddenly appears, his face shadowed, a thick beard his only feature visible.  A rush of panic and terror moves through Quinn as he tries to yell out to her, tries to pull her out of the way — but he can’t speak, he can’t move. He can only watch as the man takes a knife to her throat, cutting her open, blood splattering. He can only watch as she falls to the ground, blood spilling upon the floor, life draining from her body.  He's losing her and there's nothing he can do. He's helpless, impotent, trapped by his own body and mind. He looks down at his hands, they are covered in blood — her blood. He's lost her.

 

Lifting his head, he sees that she's gone and he's alone, back in the chamber, pain throughout his body, gasping for every breath.

 

Quinn wakes up with a jolt; his body trembling, a cold sweat covering him.

 

His hand reaches out as he looks over to the spot next to him on the bed, the place where she’d slept only hours ago; where they'd made love, finding it abandoned and cold.

 

“Carrie!” he cries out, desperation in his voice as he sits up, taking the blanket with him and turning his body so his damaged legs hang off the side of the bed.

 

“Carrie!” he shouts again.

 

Finally the bedroom door opens and the tall blonde woman briskly walks through it, standing in front of him, compassion in her eyes.

 

“Peter. Are you okay?”

 

 _Wrong blonde_.

 

“Where’s Carrie?” Quinn asks, breathless.

 

“She went out. What’s wrong? What happened?” she says, her brow furrowing.

 

“I need to see her... now!” he demands, his voice shaking.

 

“Peter, calm down,” Astrid says, quickly assessing the situation and the reason for his current state of mind. “She’s fine. It was just a dream,” she reassures him, her face soft now, her voice soothing.

 

“Fuck!” he yells, his hand grasping at his hair as his eyes close, trying to pull the horrific images that are still with him out of his head.

 

Astrid sits down next to him on the bed, her hand on his bare back, gently rubbing in an attempt to comfort him.

 

“She’ll be back soon. Really. Can I get you something? Water? Your medication?”

 

“No. I'll be fine,” Quinn breathes, his reply taut as he leans forward, his hands still wrapped up in his hair, his elbows now resting on his thighs covered by the quilted blanket.   

 

“Deep breaths.”

 

“I said I'm fine,” he fires back, unable to suppress the feelings of frustration and anger that have replaced his fear, prompting Astrid to still her hand and rise from the bed.

 

He rubs his closed lids in another futile attempt to erase the nightmare from his mind’s eye — Carrie’s face, her blood, his helplessness, all run through his head in an endless, maddening loop.

 

As his eyes slowly open, he lifts his head, watching as Astrid moves toward the door.

 

“Wait... I’m sorry.” Astrid stops and turns back to face him. “Please. Don’t go,” Quinn asks quietly. “Thanks — for doing this. I know you don’t have to.”

 

She rolls her eyes, taking a small step in his direction. “You really are a pain in the ass, but… I want to help.”

 

“How about now? Getting me into my chair?” his voice low and composed, his jaw twitching.

 

Astrid moves back to the bed and leans down, allowing Quinn to place his arm around her neck, leaning on her as he stands.

 

“Oh, fuck me,” he snorts, shaking his head as Astrid’s eyes follow his eyes, seeing what he sees — the blanket having fallen off of him when he stood up and now lying on the floor in a heap.

 

“Well, that answers that question — definitely ‘a thing’,” she mutters to herself, her eyebrows rising up, trying but failing to hold back a satisfied grin.

 

“How about getting me some shorts… please?” he intones, as Astrid remains frozen in place, still holding him up, her head still tilted downward.

 

“It's not like I’ve never seen a dick before. I do work in healthcare, Peter.”

 

“I'm okay with it if you are. But isn't there some kind of professional anti-gawking code?” he quips, a half smile breaking through his blank expression as he lets go of her and drops back down on the bed.

 

“I wasn’t gawking — it caught me by surprise,” she says, bending down to pick up the blanket, holding it out to him, her head turned away but her eyes still glancing in his direction.

 

“You're _still_ looking at it,” he deadpans as he takes the blanket from her outstretched arm and places it on his lap.

 

“I am not. And I think we moved past professional when I started helping you spy on your neighbors,” she says, turning back to face him.

 

“Good point.”

 

“And when you asked me for a — what did you call it? A happy ending?” she smirks, her eyes narrowing.

 

“Another good point.”

 

“So, how about I get you some clothes and you can put your… _large package_ away for your girlfriend, then we can get to work. Or did you have enough of a workout last night?”

 

————————————————

Lying face down on the table, he closes his eyes as Astrid digs her strong hands into the tense muscles of his neck, ruminating on the events of the past four days — the Berensons... Astrid... Carrie. Always Carrie. Their time together feels more and more like the dream; the nightmare seems more and more like reality.

 

He had never understood the term “making love” before last night, had never felt so connected to another living soul as he did in those moments with her. Yet today, his compulsion to push her away had come back. Was it the dream? Is it Berenson that she needs protection from or is he the real danger in her life?  

 

“Fuck!” he yells, the shock of pain from Astrid hitting a tender spot in his shoulder taking him out of his head and back to the present.

 

“Sorry. You've got a knot there,” she eases up on the amount of pressure she’s applying to his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah. That feels better.”

 

“No, I mean... you haven’t asked about Berenson today.  And you haven’t even glanced out the window. What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” he lies as Astrid’s hands move down to work on his lower back.

 

“Didn’t you and Carrie talk about the plan last night?” Astrid stops her massage and moves to the head of the table to look at Quinn, her brow furrowed.

 

“Carrie and I were busy doing other things. You want details?” Quinn tilts his head up and glances up at her briefly, his face stoic, before placing his head back down on the table.

 

Astrid rolls her eyes, her hands going to her hips, “Not really. But I thought at least you’d be in a better mood.”

 

“I guess getting laid didn’t solve all my problems. Are we done here?” Quinn lifts himself up to a sitting position and stretches out his arms and shoulders with a loud groan.

 

Astrid hands him his t-shirt and helps him back into his wheelchair, then begins to fold up her table as Quinn pulls the shirt over his head.

 

“Carrie seemed pretty content this morning. Actually, she was on cloud five,” she informs him while folding the last leg of her table inward and placing it in its carrying case by the front door.

 

“Nine. Cloud nine.”

 

“Yes, I know, Peter. I’m just _trying_ to get a smile from you,” she sighs loudly in frustration, moving closer to him, next to the couch. "What is wrong with you? Is it the dream?”

 

“Are you a shrink, now, too? Maybe you should just stick to the job I’m paying you to do,” he demands, his jaw twitching wildly.

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Quinn’s eyes close, wincing in regret, knowing the minute he said those words that he hurt her — his friend.

 

“Astrid, I —” his eyes meet hers, seeing the pain he put there, seeing a reflection of his own pain mirrored back at him; realizing that Astrid’s tough exterior is a facade — like his, before his stroke.

 

“I think you’ve apologized to me enough for one day. I’ll leave you alone. But I thought you should know that Berenson is trying to sell his dead wife’s diamond wedding band on eBay.”

 

“How do you know?” Quinn says softly, his curiosity peaked.

 

“Because I saw him, you idiot... on his computer... uploading pictures of the ring,” she scoffs, not quite ready to forgive him just yet.

 

Silence fills the room as Astrid continues to glare at him. Quinn tries to find something to say — something to make this fucked up situation better, but he comes up empty.

 

The front door squeaks open, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence as Carrie walks in, sensing the thick tension in the room.

 

“What’s going on?” she says, her eyes narrowing, shifting back and forth between them.

 

“I was just leaving,” Astrid responds as she gathers the rest of her belongings that she had left by the center window ledge.

 

“Leaving? Wait. Aren’t you going to help out tonight? With Berenson? We need to discuss our plan,” Carrie questions, her face showing her confusion.

 

“As far as I know, there’s nothing to help _with_.” Astrid lifts her bag, putting it over her shoulder, standing in place.

 

“Quinn. What’s going on? What happened here?” Carrie’s brow furrows as she moves closer to him, dropping her own belongings on the couch.

 

“Nothing happened. I just think we should drop it. So he killed his wife, why the fuck should I care?” Quinn explains, his head tilted down, unable to look at her.

 

“Because he _killed_ another human being. Someone that trusted him. He’s a murderer and he shouldn’t get away with it.”

 

“That’s no different from the two of us. We’ve killed and we’re free, aren’t we?”

 

“I think I should leave now.” Astrid says, moving towards the front door.

 

“No, wait, Astrid.” Carrie’s hand rising up, gesturing Astrid to stop. “I need to understand what the fuck happened here after I left, because none of this is making sense to me.” Carrie runs her hand through her hair, imploring Astrid with her eyes.

 

Astrid glances at Quinn and then back to Carrie, exhaling sharply. “He had a nightmare.”

 

“Great, Astrid. You sexually harass me _and_ you violate patient confidentiality — very professional.”

 

“Sue me.”

 

“I’m going to ignore the first part of that for now. Quinn, do you want to tell me what the dream was about? What scared you so much that you don’t care whether or not this asshole gets away with murder?” Carrie says softly, sitting down on the couch next to him.

 

Quinn's heart screams at him to tell her the truth, to take her in his arms and never let go, but his head tells him to say, “No.”

 

“That’s it? Just ‘no.’ Without any explanation,” she reiterates, shaking her head.

 

“Right.”

 

“Quinn!” Carrie exclaims, exasperated and confused. “You started this. You convinced me that he was guilty. That he killed her and chopped her up in that apartment across the courtyard. That he brought her body out in pieces in his suitcase. I _can't_ believe that you think he should just get away with it,” Carrie huffs as she stands directly in front of him, her eyes boring into his.

 

“Believe it,” Quinn states flatly.

 

“Really, Quinn?”

 

“Really, Carrie.”

 

Not wanting to interfere, Astrid quietly observes the couple arguing, her head shifting as though watching a ping pong match.

 

“Fine. I’m going through with the plan tonight whether you help me or not. Astrid and I can do it without you.” Carrie starts to turn away from him, her face contorted in anger.

 

“The hell you are, Carrie. I won't let you,” he says sternly, lunging forward in his chair, grabbing her arm harder than he had intended, stopping her momentum.

 

“Ow!...Damn it, Quinn. You're hurting me.” She pulls her arm away from him, rubbing the sore spot with her opposite hand. “You won't _let_ me? What, now you think you can tell me what to do? Just because we fucked last night?”

 

“And don’t forget about this morning. That was some quality fucking this morning.”

 

Silence fills the room once again as they search each other's eyes for something recognizable — a hint of what took place hours ago. Both wishing they could go back to their morning together, in bed, making love, holding each other.

 

“I’m really leaving now. You can text me later if you need me, Carrie,” Astrid breaks the silence, her voice soft and sorrowful.

 

Astrid quickly grabs her table and slips out the door, while Quinn and Carrie continue to hold each other's gaze.

 

“Quinn,” she sighs, her anger subsiding. “Please. What’s going on?” She kneels in front of him, tearful, her voice trembling as she finally breaks down.  

 

Quinn looks down, the color drained from his face. “I warned you Carrie that this could never work out. I'm too fucked up,” he says softly, remorsefully.

 

“Quinn, I need you.” She touches his chin, lifting it up so she can see his face. “That wasn’t a lie. Please, Quinn. Why are you doing this? After last night. Why are you still pushing me away?” Carrie pleads, her eyes tearful, her trembling hand reaching out to touch his.

 

Carrie leans in closer to him, softly resting her head in his lap, her cheek on his thigh, her fingers interlacing with his. He lifts up his free hand and gently places it on her head, stroking her hair, silently begging her to understand him, even when he doesn't understand himself.

 

“I saw him. Berenson. I saw him kill you… in my dream,” he confesses, his voice low and controlled.

 

Carrie lifts her head, “It was a dream. It wasn’t real. I’m here. I’m not hurt.”

 

“It felt real. I couldn’t stop him,” his voice starting to quiver, his blue eyes, almost translucent as they fill with tears that remain trapped behind the walls of his lids. “I can’t lose you, Carrie.”

 

“Oh, god, Quinn. You’re not going to. He’s _not_ going to hurt me. I promise. I have too much to live for now. I have Franny and I have you. And I’m not going to let him — _or you_ — take that away from me.”

 

Carrie leans in closer to him, wraps her arms around his neck and places a soft kiss on his lips as his tears finally break through their walls, flowing freely down his cheeks, Carrie kissing them away as they come.

 

——————————————

 

When they make love this time, it’s slow and tender. He takes his time, exploring her body with his hands, his lips, kissing her neck, her shoulders, down to her breasts, then her stomach, before his tongue finally enters her body; tasting her, consuming her until she comes.

 

When she takes him inside of her, he’s on top, pushing in slowly, filling her, stretching her deeper and faster with every thrust. Their mouths, their hands, mirroring their bodies, fusing together, connecting them completely, body and soul.

 

When he comes, she comes with him, intense spasms of pleasure coursing through her body, through his; both of them crying out, holding each other tightly, not letting go. Never wanting to let go.

 

She lies in his arms afterward, his blanket covering them, insulating them from the outside world, both of them silent, enjoying their post-orgasmic state where everything is perfect and they are happy and fulfilled and safe.

 

Carrie is the first to speak, breaking the silence, needing to set things straight. “Quinn, I'm _so_ sorry about what I said before. I was just frustrated and hurt and... you know that this, us, means everything to me, right?” she says, her head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, his arm wound around her body, holding her securely, while he delicately strokes her arm.

 

“You don’t...I was the one being an ass. But... I do want to know why it’s so important to you. Berenson.”

 

“The same reason I think it’s important to you.” Carrie turns to face him, propping herself up on her elbow, her chin resting in her hand. “Quinn, what we did, in our jobs, in our prior lives, it was for this country. I know I made mistakes and... people died, but my,... _our_ intentions were good — to protect and to _save_ lives. I have to believe that. And I had to forgive myself for the mistakes. How else could I be a good mother to Franny if I didn't? And you need to forgive yourself, too.”

 

“And Berenson?”

 

“He’s nothing like us, Quinn. He killed his wife. She was ill, mentally ill, and she relied on him. He was all she had, her only family, her only connection to the outside world and he killed her in cold blood, without what seems to me, to be any remorse. That’s what drew you to her, right?”

 

“Yeah,” he responds softly.

 

“We’re the only people who know what he did and so we’re the only people who care. Look, I know you’re worried, but if Astrid and I can just get to that garden where the dog was digging, I think we can find the evidence we need to get the police involved.”

 

“So, you’ll stay out of his apartment?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. But I’m still gonna have my rifle aimed and ready if that motherfucker goes anywhere near you _or_ Astrid.”

 

“Fine. Just make sure you don’t shoot _me_ again, okay?” she laughs, placing her head back down on his chest.

 

“I’ll try not to. But you can’t blame me for the last time. It was the only way I was going to get to see you without your shirt on.”

 

“Quinn!” she sits up again, smacking his arm as he lifts the covers, looking underneath them at her naked body, grinning with delight that she’s his now. Finally his.

 

She crawls on top of him, feeling the warmth of his skin on hers, breathing him in, seeing his love for her in his eyes as he carefully tucks the errant strands of her hair behind her ear, making her burn for him, urgently needing him inside of her. She lowers her head so that their lips connect, soft and tender at first, then quickly going deeper as the the outside world disappears and it’s just the two of them, coming together once again.

 

—————————

 

The knock on the door startles Carrie out of her dreamy haze as she puts the last dish from their dinner into the dishwasher.

 

They had shared a quiet meal —Chinese food delivery — while gazing into each other’s eyes with the slight awkwardness and butterflies of a first date. They discussed music and movies and shared intimate details about themselves, their childhoods; things that she had never known about him, that she had never bothered to find out. And she was captivated, hanging onto his every word, every thought and every feeling that was being revealed. It was as beautiful and as meaningful as their time in bed. And she felt herself falling even deeper in love with him because of it.

 

Astrid, wearing tight black pants, a black turtleneck, black boots and a black knit hat, was already letting herself in by the time Carrie returned to the living room.

 

“Astrid, we’re digging in the flower beds, not robbing a bank.”

 

“Is it too much? Scheisse. Sorry. It’s my first real spy mission, I wasn’t sure of the dress code,” Astrid bites her lower lip, seeming a little uncharacteristically nervous; Carrie not sure if it was the mission or seeing Quinn again after their argument.

 

Carrie shakes her head and laughs. “It’s fine. Thanks... for coming.”

 

“Peter,” Astrid nods coolly in his direction as he wheels himself into the living room from the bedroom, his sniper rifle on his lap.

 

“Astrid. Look. I’m an asshole.”

 

“I agree.”

 

“But...I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, his eyes pleading for her forgiveness.

 

“I know you are,” she finally smiles, “ And I'm sorry for staring at your ...dick? Or is it cock?  I’m never sure which word to use.”

 

“Either. And don’t worry about it,” Quinn smiles, shrugging his shoulders.

 

“Okay, I didn’t want to ask before but I think I should know what the fuck the two of you are talking about,” Carrie says, moving between them, her arms crossed in front of her chest as her head turns from Quinn to Astrid and then back to Quinn again.

 

“I accidently saw his dick.”

 

“You saw his dick? By accident?” Carrie asks, turning back to Astrid, her forehead furrowed.

 

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t _at attention_ ,” Astrid clarifies.

 

“That’s reassuring.”  


“That’s because… fuck! Can we stop talking about my dick?”

 

“Yes, can we? It’s fine… Whatever,” Carrie hisses, rolling her eyes as she plops down on the couch, more annoyed at herself for allowing this to bother her and desperately wanting to change the subject.

  


“By the way, what _did_ you tell your husband when he asked where you were going tonight, dressed like that,” Carrie smiles, her head tilting as she redirects her attention to Astrid.

 

“Book club.”

 

“Seriously? And the outfit?”

 

“Book character costume night.”

 

Carrie exhales sharply, her hand running through her hair.

 

Astrid puts her bag down next to the couch and sits down next to Carrie. “He seems like he’s in a good mood. You two must have been fucking like rabbits,” she whispers to Carrie, who stares straight ahead through the partially open window shade. “And by the way, Carrie, congratulations. Even limp it was pretty impressive.”

 

“Oh, Christ,” Carrie shakes her head before rising up and moving towards the windows. She takes a deep breath in, then exhales, “It’s almost showtime. Are we ready?”

 

Quinn wheels himself closer to Carrie.

 

“Jesus, Quinn. I thought you were kidding about the rifle. I can't believe they let you keep that,” Carrie snorts, her hands on her hips.

 

“They didn't. Just don't do anything that will make me have to use it. I'm not sure how steady my aim is.”

 

“That's reassuring,” Astrid mumbles.

 

“Astrid, turn out the lights and open the rest of the shades, will you? Let’s see if this motherfucker takes the bait.”

 

She steps back after opening the last shade, each of them now in front of one of the three windows — Quinn in the center, flanked by Carrie and Astrid — all staring out into the dark, moonless night.

 

For a Thursday night, the neighborhood seems to be bustling with an unusual amount of activity, which he hopes will provide ample distraction away from the two blondes who will soon be digging up a killer’s flower beds.

 

Quinn looks in on Berenson, who's sitting at his desk, staring out across the room, a lit cigarette in his hand; most likely contemplating his next move.

 

Then he quickly surveys the rest of the neighbors, just like the start of any surveillance op, needing to know the lay of the land. Lockhart's apartment is filled to capacity with people drinking and laughing as he entertains them with some Cole Porter tunes. Fara is seemingly taking a break from studying by doing some yoga stretches. The Brodys have their shades closed, so Quinn can only imagine what must be going on in that apartment. And Miss Lonelyhearts is focused on typing something on her computer, Quinn watches as her agile fingers move swiftly across the keyboard with unbridled determination.

 

Carrie helps Quinn set up his rifle by replacing a lamp on one of the taller end tables with the shooting rest and weapon, the gun aiming through the open window at the flower beds below.

 

Quinn breathes in deeply, suddenly feeling a cold shiver down his spine, the flash of his dream returning just in time to rattle his nerves for the mission that lies ahead.

 

“Peter. Carrie. He's leaving the apartment,” Astrid reports calmly.

 

“Right on time,” Quinn says, looking at his watch. “Ready?”

 

“Astrid?” Carrie asks, glancing at her new friend.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Carrie, make sure you keep your phone on. I don't want him or any of the neighbors getting wind of what you’re doing, so you need to listen if I tell you to abort. And make sure one of you is on the lookout while the other is digging. Ok? Carrie?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Astrid takes the small shovel out of her bag, and heads towards the door; Carrie right behind her.

 

“Be careful; both of you. And get the fuck out of there if Berenson approaches — we have no idea whether or not he has a weapon.”

 

Carrie stops at the door, Astrid already on the other side, turning to Quinn, grinning at him before turning back and walking through.

 

“Carrie!” Quinn shouts, his heart sinking inside of him in a moment of anxiety, needing to tell her, wanting her to be sure of what he feels and has always felt for her.

 

Carrie moves back through the door, their eyes meeting as Quinn’s mouth opens to tell her, but nothing comes out — his words getting caught in his throat.

 

“Quinn?” Carrie studies his face, her forehead furrowed.

 

“I love you,” he breathes, the corners of his mouth lifting as his eyes silently plead for her to come back unharmed. “I just need you to know that… that I do.”

 

Carrie walks back to Quinn, leans down, and places a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. She pulls away slowly, then smiles. “I know,” she whispers, her eyes glistening in the darkened room before walking out again, closing the door softly behind her.

 

Quinn positions himself behind the makeshift gun stand, peeking through the scope, trying to push the image of her smile, her kiss, out of his mind so that he can focus on keeping her and Astrid safe.

 

He leans back from the weapon and picks up the binoculars, immediately spotting Carrie and Astrid climbing up and over the garden ledge, and into the flower beds while hearing “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” playing throughout the courtyard.

 

Astrid does the digging as Carrie keeps watch, while Quinn, placing the binoculars on his lap, uses his naked eye to survey the area. He makes sure to carefully watch the walkway where Berenson would need to pass in order to return to his apartment from the bar.

 

Minutes that seem like hours pass by while Quinn continues to keep a close eye on the neighborhood and all of its occupants. The adrenaline rush that used to accompany missions like these is missing now, replaced by a growing knot in his stomach made even larger by the fact that Carrie is the one out there, and he can only watch and wait.

“Carrie? Anything?” he speaks into his bluetooth mic, looking through his binoculars aimed at the women.

 

“Nothing,” Carrie sighs, shaking her head.

 

“Are you sure that’s where the dog was digging?”

 

“Positive. Maybe he moved it.”

 

“Carrie, come back. We’re running out of time. He’s only going to be at that bar for so long. It’s over… Carrie?”

 

He sees Carrie and Astrid whispering close, her hand covering the mouthpiece of her mic, then watches in horror as she leaves Astrid and heads quickly towards Berenson’s apartment.

 

“What _the fuck_ are you doing, Carrie?”

 

“We can get this guy, Quinn. This might be our only chance,” she says, breathing heavily, before jumping up to reach the ladder of the fire escape and pulling it down.

 

“You promised me, Carrie. What if he comes home?” he asks, his voice shaking with anger and fear as Carrie climbs the ladder to the third floor.

 

“You have your sniper rifle.”

 

“Carrie, I have a tremor in my left arm. I can’t walk. You can’t count on me if this goes to shit. You’re on your own,” he states emphatically.

 

“I can always count on you.”

 

_But it’s different now. He is different._

 

“Please, Carrie. Don’t do this,” he pleads.

 

“I’ll be fine. We can’t let him get away with it. _I_ can’t.”

She stretches her arms out to Berenson’s unlatched window, opening it with ease and quickly climbing inside; banging her head against the base of the frame and knocking the bluetooth microphone out of her ear in the process. She, and Quinn, can only watch as it falls to the ground, smashing into pieces.

 

_She’s in._

 

A few anxious minutes later, Quinn’s apartment door opens as Astrid slips hurriedly inside. “I couldn’t talk her out of it. I’m sorry, Peter. Is she in?”

 

“Yeah, she’s in. Fuck!” he yells, ripping the earpiece out of his ear and throwing it across the room.

 

“Peter. What should we do?”

 

“Here. Take these.” He hands her the binoculars. “Watch for Berenson.”

 

Quinn picks up his phone and dials. One ring, two rings, three, four. “Fuck!” he yells again, this time into the phone as he hears Dar’s voicemail message on the other end of the line. “Dar. It’s Peter. I need you here. Now. Carrie went into Berenson’s place. I need backup.” Quinn ends the call and continues to watch Carrie, seeing her efficiently going through the drawers of the desk in his living room.

 

“What is she even looking for?”

 

“The ring,” he responds flatly, his hand running through his hair.

 

“Jesus, Peter. Miss Lonelyhearts. She just swallowed a handful of pills and is washing it down with a glass of ... merlot? Pfui. ”

 

“Fuck me. Can’t she kill herself on a different night?! Call the police. An ambulance. Now!”

 

Astrid makes the call, giving the operator the directions to Allison’s apartment and hangs up.

 

They both stare blankly out of the windows as silence befalls the courtyard, Quinn wondering how this simple plan turned into such a clusterfuck and feeling helpless to do anything about it.

 

“She has another handful of pills. Where the fuck are the police?”

 

Lockhart’s maudlin tune, the one he had composed, begins to play, interrupting the silence as the entire neighborhood stills to listen.

 

“She put them down. She didn’t take them. Peter, thank god. I think it was the music that stopped her. She’s running over to the sink — she’s throwing up,” Astrid relays, breathing a sigh of relief while watching the woman through the binoculars.

 

But the damage was done. Allison’s suicide attempt distracted him long enough for them to miss Berenson walking to the apartment building and arriving at his front door.

 

“Fuck! Berenson!”

 

“Oh, god, Peter.”

 

Quinn and Astrid watch in horror as Berenson walks into his apartment, clueless as to the stranger waiting on the other side.

 

They see Carrie, apparently hearing the door open and having no place to hide, making a run for the open window. But it’s too late. He moves swiftly and blocks her attempt, grabbing her by the arm, Carrie fighting fiercely to free herself. But the older man is stronger than she had imagined, now bending her arm backwards, neutralizing her, as Carrie’s face winces in pain.

 

Quinn looks through the scope of his rifle, his hand trembling as he tries to line up a shot. But Berenson, either realizing he’s being watched or just by sheer happenstance, places Carrie in front of him, her back to the window. There’s no way Quinn can take the shot. No way to be sure his bullet won’t strike her and not the target.

 

It's real this time, the running out of air, the gasping for every breath. The pain shooting through his body, the glass window separating him from her. Only able to watch, powerless, paralyzed with the fear of losing her, just as he had dreamed.

 

“The police. They just pulled up,” Astrid announces with restrained optimism.

 

“Go! Make them go into Berenson’s apartment. Tell them you saw a woman being attacked. Now!” Quinn orders, without hesitation, without taking his eye off of Carrie through the long lens of the weapon.

 

Astrid puts down the binoculars and hurries out the door.

 

She’s still there. Still alive. He hasn’t hurt her. There's no knife to her throat. No blood splattering.

 

He takes a deep breath in and exhales sharply. He can breathe. He can move. He has control. He’s had a lifetime of training to do exactly this. Even in his weakened state, his body still remembers. He can take this motherfucker out if he has to, he tells himself.

 

“Get the fuck out of the way, Carrie,” he mutters, his finger still on the trigger, no longer trembling, still looking through the scope.

 

He watches and waits as Berenson seems to be interrogating her, Carrie shaking her head in response, the fingers of her right hand wiggling as her arms are held behind her back.

 

Berenson shifts his head slightly to the side, just for a moment, seeming to look out the window, directly at him. Quinn has a clear shot at the man’s head, but in a moment of doubt, unsure if a kill shot is necessary, he hesitates, too long, and Berenson shifts back behind Carrie — a decision Quinn prays he won’t regret.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Did Berenson see him? Does he know he’s being watched? Would it matter if he did?

 

He takes his eye out of the scope and looks across the courtyard and into the apartment. Carrie’s arms are still behind her back, but now her middle finger is pointing up. She’s either flipping him off or ...  

 

_The ring. She has the ring._

 

He can’t help but smile — Carrie, never ceasing to amaze him, determined and headstrong as ever, never stopping until she gets exactly what she wants. All the qualities that made him fall in love with her in the first place, but now, more than likely, going to be the traits that gets one or both of them killed.

 

Seconds later, the police arrive at Berenson’s door and Quinn exhales with relief. Letting go of Carrie’s arms, Berenson walks slowly to the door, straightening his shirt, combing his hair back with his hand, and then lets them in.

 

_She's safe._

 

Quinn wheels himself closer to the window, stopping first to pick up the binoculars that Astrid had left on the coffee table, looking through them, observing the commotion in the room as it’s evolving.

 

The police question Berenson and Carrie separately, and after several minutes, Carrie is led out the door by the officers, not handcuffed, leaving Berenson on his own.

 

Quinn tries to get into Carrie’s mindset — she probably didn't say anything to the police about Berenson’s wife, at least not in front of him. But what had Berenson said to the police? That she broke into the apartment? He had tried to read his lips, but that bird’s nest of a beard on his face didn't allow it. What exactly was that piece of shit up to? At least she isn’t being arrested as far as he could tell.

 

Berenson tears apart the room. Panicked. Searching for something. The ring? Did he realize that Carrie had taken it?

 

Minutes go by before Berenson is out the door. Out of the building. Heading  back out into the busy Brooklyn streets. Maybe gone for good. Maybe that is for the best.

 

Quinn can only wait. For Astrid. For Carrie. Still in the dark room. Still in the dark.

 

His door finally opens. Astrid. He turns his wheelchair to face her. No, it’s not Astrid. The door closes behind him — Berenson.

 

He has a gun. It’s pointed at Quinn. The room is silent. Quinn’s mind working. He needs to get to his rifle.

 

“Who are you people? What do you want from me?” his voice low and rough, his shadowed figure slowly, patiently, moving closer to Quinn.

 

Quinn doesn’t answer. Still thinking. Still figuring out how to disarm this man. How to arm himself.

 

“You want money? I don’t have any,” Berenson says, stopping his forward movement, still several feet away from Quinn.

 

“What did you do with her? Your wife.” Quinn finally speaks, asserting authority and control.

 

Berenson spots the rifle and smiles. “Move into the light,” he signals with his gun, “I want to see your face.”

 

Quinn wheels his chair closer to the windows, moving into the light. Farther away from his weapon. Farther away from his chances of getting out of this alive.

 

“You’re military? Black-ops? I recognize that weapon. What could you possibly want from me?”

 

Quinn remains silent again. Planning. Plotting. Praying.

 

“I know you. You’re the soldier they gassed on TV, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They let you keep that gun?”

 

“No. I bought it at Walmart.”

 

“This may be your lucky day. You must be pretty fucked up after that. You must be thinking that I can take it all away. All the pain. All the nightmares. Just like I did for her.”

 

“Is that why you did it? For her?”

 

“Hell, no. I couldn’t stand that crazy bitch any longer. Although she really didn’t object. I think she wanted it. Just like you want it.”

 

“I don’t, but thanks for the offer.”

 

Berenson laughs, moving a little closer. Quinn’s still thinking. Plotting. Stalling for time.

 

“The blondes —which one’s your girlfriend? Or are you fucking both of them?”

 

“No. Just one. The one that has your dead wife’s wedding ring. But I’m sure they are both talking. To the police, that is. Right now.”

 

“So I'm pretty much fucked, huh? I figured that. Dead man walking. But, now —  now I have to decide if I’m taking you with me. If I want to take the blondes, too, if the opportunity arises.”

 

“What about _your_ girlfriend? The one you killed for. The one in Mexico.”

 

Berenson smirks, shaking his head. “Alex? You must mean Alex. He’s gone. Took the money I gave him. The money I stole from my wife — that was supposed to be used to start our new life together. Disappeared. No goodbye. Just gone. So you see, it was all for nothing. And I’ve got nothing left.”

 

“I have something. Something good. Something I want to live for. Finally. After years of only shit and pain and misery. So you wouldn’t be doing me any favors. Not now.”

 

The two men stare at each other in silence, Quinn hoping that there’s some good left in him. That he wouldn’t begrudge a little happiness to a fellow soldier.

 

“Okay,” Berenson shrugs, taking the pistol and placing the barrel onto the temple of his own head. His finger on the trigger.

 

A gunshot. A scream. Berenson’s down, groaning and writhing in pain, grabbing his wounded shoulder, his gun lying next to him on the ground, Carrie standing at the door, her gun still aimed.

 

“Fuck! Are you okay? Quinn?” she asks as she moves across the room to Berenson, kicking the gun farther away and out of his reach.

 

“Yeah, I’m okay… Nice shot. Where did you get the weapon?” he replies, his voice cold, watching as Berenson’s blood drains out of his shoulder, staining his gray rug.

 

“I had it stashed — outside, in the garden.”

 

Suddenly, before either can comprehend what’s happening, the police storm into the room, weapons drawn.

 

“Drop your weapon! Now! On the ground!”

 

“She’s with me. She’s one of mine,” Dar explains as he strolls into the room behind the two uniformed police, telling them to lower their weapons that were raised and aimed at Carrie.

 

Carrie stoops over Berenson, “what did you do with her? Where is she?”

 

“Fuck you, you fucking cunt,” Berenson chokes out.

 

A third officer walks into the room, Astrid by his side.

 

“Sir. We found... something. In his closet. In a hat box with the initials A.F.G. written on it.”

 

“I had to move it... when the dog started digging. You won’t find the rest of her,” Berenson moans. “She’s scattered... across the East River.”

 

“Who’s A.F.G.? Your accomplice?” Dar asks, towering over Berenson.

 

“Fuck you!” Berenson spits back. “I need a fucking doctor!”

 

“It’s his boyfriend,” Quinn answers, his voice low. “He’s in Mexico now.”

 

Carrie gets up and moves closer to Quinn. Their eyes meeting, briefly, as Carrie gives him a reassuring smile, Quinn’s stoic expression unchanging.

 

“So, you two were actually right,” Dar says with a sardonic grin, looking out the window, watching all of the curious neighbors as they now try to look in.

 

“Of course they were right,” Astrid interjects, standing behind Quinn, her hand on his shoulder.

 

Dar turns and faces Quinn. “Who’s she?” his head nodding in Astrid’s direction.

 

“I’m his physical therapist.”

 

“Ah. German. Have you ever thought about working for the United States government? The CIA?  We could use some new blood in our Berlin station. Our previous station chief recently… retired.”

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!


	6. Day Five and Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, sweetness, and a happy ending!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FrangipaniFlower and LeBlanc1 for all of their help!

It had been two hours after Berenson had been taken by paramedics, one hour after Astrid went home, fifteen minutes after finishing up the questions by the police and Dar, when Carrie and Quinn were finally alone.

 

Quinn had barely looked at her during this time; barely spoken other than to answer the questions asked by the police, his face frozen in a vacant stare. And she knew why. She had betrayed him and it almost cost him his life. 

 

He was already in bed, had managed it on his own and was sitting up, his legs stretched out in front of him when she came out of the bathroom wearing his t-shirt, the same one she had worn for the last three nights.

 

“I just talked to Maggie. She can take care of Franny for another night,” she says, standing at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed in front of her chest. 

 

“Did I invite you to stay?” Quinn responds, his face motionless. 

 

“Quinn! Please. I’m so sorry.”

 

She climbs into her side of the bed, kneeling next to him. 

 

“Can you even look at me?” she asks, her eyes filling with tears as she reaches out to touch his cheek, turning his face to hers. “I didn’t know… I didn’t think he’d find you. If something had happened to you —”

 

“Me?” he interrupts, his eyes widening, his face anguished, grabbing her wrist and pushing it away from his face. “You think I give a shit about myself? It was you, Carrie! You! Don’t you get that?!”

 

His eyes search hers for comprehension — some sense of understanding of what she put him through in the name of justice. Her eyes search his for forgiveness and acceptance of the person that she is. But she doesn’t find it. She can only see his anger and his pain.

 

“Quinn…” she breathes, not knowing what else to say or what to do. 

 

So she kisses him. Gently. Pulling away slowly, tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

 

And then he answers back. Not gently. Urgently and hungrily, his mouth coming down hard on hers, his lips forcing hers open, his tongue aggressively seeking hers. Grabbing the back of her head, he pulls her in closer, the kiss deepening as he places both hands on her shoulders. 

 

He breaks the kiss and shoves her down so that she is lying along the width of the bed, then grabs her thighs, spreading them apart, his rough hands lingering there momentarily before he climbs between them, kneeling, towering over her. 

 

Surprised by his aggression but aching for him, wanting to surrender herself completely and wholeheartedly to him — understanding that this moment of coming together can’t be tender and sweet and loving; it has to be urgent and rough and primal — for him  _ and _ for her.

 

Lasciviously, he scans her body, avoiding her face, but Carrie can still see his eyes, dark with anger and passion and pain. 

 

His hands move up her sides to her arms, forcing them above her head, taking her shirt off in the process, then grabbing her wrists with his right hand and holding them there while his other hand greedily massages her breast. His mouth quickly finds her nipple, using his tongue, his teeth, pleasure bordering on pain, while Carrie, unable to differentiate the two sensations, calls out his name with abandon.

 

Carrie tries to pull her arms away, wanting to touch him, but his grip only gets tighter as his mouth and hand travel from one breast to the other before relinquishing them both. 

 

“Carrie…” he whispers before his lips meet hers again for a fast, frantic kiss, his free hand fumbling to pull down his boxers, just enough, and lowering his body on top of hers.  She spreads her legs wider for him, feeling him hard against her as she wraps them tightly around his hips. 

 

His hand swiftly moves from his underclothes to hers, pushing the silky fabric of her panties to the side, his fingers grazing her clit in the process. “Please, Quinn,” Carrie whimpers, canting her hips, already so wet, so turned on, begging him to fuck her.  

 

Immediately and forcefully, he enters her, thrusting into her, Quinn’s guttural moans vibrating loudly against her ear so that she can only hear him, her own moans drowned out by his.

 

He continues to drive into her, hard and fast, Carrie barely able to catch her breath in between thrusts as she rocks her hips to meet his. He slides his free hand up the length of her arm, taking it, so that her arms are being held separately from each other — hand meeting hand, right palm facing left, left palm facing right, Quinn pushing them both down into the firm mattress.

 

Never in her life has she felt so wanted, so desired. She can feel it in every thrust. She hears it as his moaning becomes louder. She’s so close to completely unraveling, but needs to know, to see that he’s forgiven her; that this isn’t a punishment but an affirmation of both of them being alive. 

 

And that’s exactly what she feels — alive. So present in the moment, and so filled with love and lust for him. It’s almost miraculous how her body responds to his, like their bodies were designed for each other — molding together perfectly. 

 

She feels his hair tickling her cheek, his warm breath on her neck, their faces being so close together, but he doesn’t look at her, his head stays tilted down.

 

“Oh, god, Quinn,” she moans, her breath hitching. “I’m so close… please… look at me.”

 

Quinn lifts his head and looks at her, slowing down his relentless pace long enough for Carrie to see a glimmer of tenderness in his eyes. Then he puts his head down again, their cheeks touching, and starts to fuck her even harder and faster than before, grunting with each thrust, his body stretched out completely, covering her, enveloping her, pushing her to the brink with his welcome domination.

 

“Carrie...You’re fucking mine,” he rasps in her ear, breathless. 

 

He clasps her hands tightly, each finger interlacing with its counterpart, and pushes himself up so that he’s hovering above her, watching her face as he changes the angle of his hips, hitting just the right spot with each back and forth movement, allowing her to finally let go. 

 

Crying out, her orgasm tears through her with violent pleasure, sending her body into trembling spasms, clenching fiercely around him, still so hard and driving into her with all of his might.  

 

Then he comes. Loud, unrestrained, and forceful; shooting into her, until his momentum finally slows, then stops before he collapses his body onto hers, his heart pounding against her chest.

 

Releasing her hands, he slides his arms underneath of her upper body, squeezing her small frame tightly, still inside her, his lips pressed firmly into the side of her neck. 

 

“Carrie,” he whispers, barely audible; Carrie’s not even sure if she actually hears the word, only the vibration of his lips on her skin.

 

She sighs, so content in the moment, until it hits her —   _ what have I done _ ?  _ What have I risked? _ Finally understanding what she put him through — the man she loves. The man who has risked his life over and over again for her. 

 

Wrapping her newly freed arms around him, she caresses his back lovingly and whispers, “Quinn. Please. Forgive me. I  _ am _ yours, for always now.”

 

He lifts his head up after hearing her words, his moist eyes gazing into hers, then he slowly leans down to kiss her, gentle and lingering. 

 

He pulls back and retrieves his arm from underneath her warm body, using it to touch her cheek as a faint smile crosses his lips. Then he kisses her again — longer this time, his lips meshing with hers before reluctantly leaving her body and rolling off to lie by her side. 

 

They lie there, next to each other, both of them breathing heavily, staring up at the white ceiling.

 

“You Solo’ed me,” he says after several minutes of silence.

 

“Huh? I did what?” she turns her head to face him. 

 

“When I told you I loved you. You said ‘I know’. That’s Han Solo’s line from The Empire Strikes Back.”

 

“Oh. I’ve never seen those movies.”

 

“You’ve never seen any of the Star Wars movies?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.”

 

“I was into mystery movies growing up — you know, like Hitchcock and Sherlock Holmes,” she turns to face him, propping her chin up on her hand. “But I  _ did _ know, Quinn. I guess I’ve always known. It just took me a while.”

 

“Yeah,” he responds softly, his eyes still fixed on an invisible spot on the ceiling. 

 

“Am I too late?”

 

“No,” he says, turning his head to her, then whispers, “never.” 

 

“Good,” she grins, snuggling up closer to him and wrapping her arm around his chest. “And by the way,…for future reference, I kinda liked that. Just now. With you angry at me.”

 

“I’m sure there will be plenty of that, Carrie. Me being angry. You do that to me… a lot.”

 

“I didn’t mean that I like you being angry at me, but, the way you… took me,” she says shyly, her head now buried in his chest. 

 

He kisses the top of her head, “For  _ future reference _ , I’d be much happier if you could try not to get one or both of us killed again anytime soon. I can still fuck your brains out without all of the precoital drama.”

 

“Good to know,” she laughs, her cheeks pink. “And you? It seemed like you enjoyed it yourself, fucking my brains out.”

 

“I did. I liked holding you down. Making you beg for me to make you come,” his voice serious now, low and controlled. “You liked that? Just making sure I have things straight so that there are no misunderstandings in the future.”

 

“Yes,” she whispers, then places a soft kiss on his chest. 

 

“You liked  _ not _ being in control?” 

 

“Yes,” she repeats more assuredly. 

 

“Okay, then. I’m good with that.”

 

“But maybe...you could get some handcuffs, you know, so you can still use  _ your _ hands. Just in case I get the urge to… try and flee,” her voice husky, her left brow raised, placing another kiss on his chest.

 

“I have some zip ties left over from Berlin.”

 

“Hmm. That could work. But can we skip the part where you smear blood on my face? I mean, it was definitely hot, but I’d hate for you to have to cut your… skilled hand”

 

“Sure, Carrie, whatever you want,” he grins, his hand lightly stroking her back.

 

“Or a scarf? You have one?”

 

“Seriously, Carrie. Do I look like the kind of guy who would wear a scarf?”

 

“Well…maybe,” she giggles, her laughter vibrating through his chest. 

 

“I may have a necktie somewhere. That could work.” 

 

He takes her hand from around him, causing her to lift her head, and rolls over on his side so that they are face to face.

 

“And, what can I get for you?” she asks, her hand lightly caressing his arm.  

 

“Just you, Carrie. That’s all I want,” he says, his voice sincere.

 

“You have me. Anything else?” 

 

“Steel window shutters...with a lock.” 

 

“How about instead, you move back in with me. Not in the basement. In my bedroom. Our bedroom.”

 

“What about Franny?” he asks timidly and with concern, barely able to suppress his smile.

 

“Franny is crazy about you! And,...she’s a very heavy sleeper. So you can groan as loudly as you want.”

“Me?” he laughs, relieved by her answer, his heart filled with happiness. “You’re the one who just screamed so loud, I thought the police might come busting through my door... again,” he teases, his voice low and husky. 

 

“Well, I can’t help it if you’re good at what you do. Fuck, Quinn. And that’s with a cast on your leg. I can’t even imagine —”

 

He grabs the back of her head and pulls her mouth to his, silencing her instantly as his tongue dives into her, delicately exploring her mouth, his body already recovered and ready for another around. 

 

His lips leave hers and travel down her neck, stopping along the way, inch by inch, kissing her smooth skin while Carrie's hand begins to slide up his thigh. 

 

He’s already rock hard by the time she reaches him, her hand wrapping around him. “Quinn. Already?” she says as she begins to stroke him with a firm amount of pressure while leaning closer into his body. Quinn surrenders, rolling to his back as her mouth finds his nipple, her tongue flitting, her teeth scraping.  

 

“Carrie… what’ve you done to me?” he exhales, his voice barely a whisper, his words a resignation of his fate; at peace with his concession of power to her.

 

She lifts her head and smiles at him, “It’s my turn now.”

 

Sitting up, she quickly divests herself of her panties and pulls Quinn’s boxers off that had ended up stuck on the upper edge of his cast, tossing both off the side of the bed before climbing on top of him. Her hands slide down his chest with a feather-like touch, teasing him, making him crazy with desire; his passion unremitting as all of his anger and pain dissipates, replaced by bliss and gratitude that she is unharmed and he is alive to experience their coming together.

 

Carrie touches his cheek, gazing down upon him, her lips curling up in a smile before she lowers herself onto him; the sensation overwhelming him with pleasure that rips through his body, his breath hitching as he lets out a stuttered moan. 

 

She takes control this time; setting the pace, moving slowly on top of him while he watches her, in awe of her beauty, wanting her closer, feeling like he can never get close enough.

 

As if reading his mind, she leans down to kiss him, soft, tender, lingering, before she breaks the kiss and straightens out her legs to lie flat on top of him, rocking her hips, her body pressing into his, his arms wrapping around her. 

 

“I love you, Quinn,” she whispers in his ear, “I love you.” 

 

Quinn closes his eyes, savoring every sensation — feeling truly loved for the first time in his life. 

 

“I love you, too.” 

 

They come together this time; slow, intense orgasms while their lips are joined, their two bodies and souls becoming one. 

 

They don’t speak anymore after, it’s all been said already, but just wrap their arms around each other, their legs intertwined, both finding a peaceful, restful and deep sleep. 

 

———————

 

_ Four days later… _ .

 

Standing in front of her is open windows, Quinn gazes out into the courtyard, noticing how different it now looks from the slightly higher perspective. It’s brighter, warmer; the colors of the garden seem more vibrant, the sky bluer than before. Even the people look different. Cheerful. Carefree. The memory of that night already fading from their minds.

 

It’s a beautiful spring day and he watches as some of the neighborhood kids play catch in the grassy area next to the garden and the Diaz family, out with their puppy, laughing as the exuberant dog excitedly chases his own tail, refusing to give up the challenge until successful or exhausted.

 

A smile crosses his lips — he is truly happy. His eyes close for a moment, feeling the heat radiating through the windows, warming his skin and he imagines his future with Carrie and Franny. A real future, not just some fantasy or a hopeless dream that will never be. But a home. A family. Being able to go outside in his _ own _ backyard, play catch with Franny, maybe even get a dog. 

 

_ I bet Franny would love a dog. _

 

And Carrie. Waking up every day next to her and going to bed every night with her in his arms. Making love whenever they can. And being loved by her, not out of pity or guilt, but based on true and deep feelings of connection and admiration and passion. It’s no longer a false glimmer — it’s right in front of him and it’s his for the taking. 

 

He is determined not to fuck it up this time, his chance of a lifetime, of a family, of love.

 

He’ll work hard at it and he knows it won’t be easy. There will still be pain and fear, but it’s muted and latent now. He is no longer living in darkness; no longer drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

 

He’ll take his meds, keep his appointments with Astrid and his new psychologist, and let Carrie help him when he needs it. Pushing her away is no longer an option, he knows that now. He’s learned that.  _ She’s _ taught him that. 

 

A light rap on the door takes him out of his daydream and back into reality, the difference between the two barely disparate anymore.

 

“Quinn? Are you decent?” Carrie asks, her head peeking through the small opening of the door. 

 

“Would you prefer me not to be?” he smiles at her, his eyebrows raised. 

 

“Actually, I brought you a visitor.” She opens the door wider and the little red-haired girl bursts through it like a bolt of lightning, her face lit up as she runs to Quinn and he scoops her up in his arms, wobbling a bit from the force of the impact.

 

“Hi Franny-cakes,” he says cheerfully, “I missed you!” 

 

“Careful, sweetie. Peter isn’t all the way better just yet,” Carrie warns her daughter, her voice a contradiction to the huge smile that reaches her eyes. 

 

“I’m fine, Carrie,” he grins, his voice soft, glancing across at Carrie as their eyes meet briefly before turning back to Franny. “But, I could use a little rest. How about you climb down and help me over to the couch?” 

 

“Okay,” she responds lackadaisically while he lowers her back down, trying but not succeeding in holding back a slight groan as a sharp pain shoots through his now uncasted leg.

 

Taking his hand, Franny leads him slowly over to the couch, holding onto him as he sits down. Then she lifts his legs, one at a time, and helps him place them on the coffee table in front of him, Carrie looking on with pride. 

 

“Mommy,” she attempts to whisper, “can we give him his presents now?”

 

“Of course,” Carrie says, walking over to the couch and handing Franny a small brown paper bag with handles. 

 

“First, I made this for you,” Franny beams, pulling a rolled up paper out of the bag. 

 

Quinn opens the paper carefully, revealing the colorful drawing of a happy family:  A yellow-haired woman and brown-haired man, holding the hands of the little red-haired girl in between them. And all with huge, pink smiles that take up half of their faces. 

 

“It’s us!” she explains enthusiastically.  Quinn stares at the drawing, then turns to Franny, his eyes wet, his voice low and brittle, “It’s beautiful. I love it. Thank you.” He gives the little girl a hug, seeing Carrie standing behind her, smiling down at them as tears threaten to break free.

 

Franny breaks the hug, and takes a second item out of the bag and hands it to Quinn. 

 

“And here’s your second present. Cookies! Chocolate chip! Mommy and I baked them this morning,” her wide eyes bright, her hands clapping in excitement. “Mommy said I had to ask if you would share them with me, but she said you would definitely say ‘yes’. So can I? Please?”

 

“Absolutely. Do you think you can go into the kitchen and get some napkins? They’re on the counter,” Quinn asks, trying to keep his voice stable.

 

Franny gets up and heads towards the kitchen while Carrie quickly sits down next to Quinn, turning his face towards hers and diving in for a soft, passionate kiss. 

 

“Fuck, Carrie. Don’t get me started,” he moans softly against her mouth before deepening the kiss, and pulling her closer to him. 

 

“You guys are kissing!” Franny giggles, returning from the kitchen with an entire roll of paper towels in her hand, Carrie and Quinn abruptly break their kiss like two teenagers caught by their parents. “Does that mean you’re going to get married?” she asks eagerly, before plopping down on the couch, wedging herself right between them. 

 

Carrie and Quinn look at each other, Quinn’s eyebrows raised, trying to indicate to Carrie that  _ she _ needs to address the question posed. 

 

“Maybe, sweetie. Peter and I need to talk about it some more. Is that okay?” 

 

“Sure. Hannah’s mom lives with her boyfriend and they aren’t married. It’s cool.” 

 

Carrie and Quinn share a brief smile, in awe of this precocious child. 

 

They are all taken out of the moment as the front door abruptly opens, Astrid entering the room, struggling to carry three large moving boxes and a paper coffee cup pressed between her lips. 

 

“Can somebody help with these things,” she mumbles, her teeth grasping the cup tightly. 

 

Carrie rushes over and grabs two of the boxes, allowing Astrid a free hand to take the cup out of her mouth. “Well, hello,” she says to Franny, noticing the new face in the room. 

 

“Franny, this is our friend, Astrid.”

 

“Hi, Astrid,” Franny says shyly, shifting her body closer to Quinn.

 

“Jeez, Astrid. All of Quinn’s stuff could fit in just one of these boxes,” Carrie teases as she places the boxes down by the bookshelf. 

 

Astrid sits down on the couch next to Franny, smiling at her. “May I have a cookie, please? Chocolate chip is my favorite.”

 

“Yes! I made them for Peter, but you can have one too,” Franny answers enthusiastically, handing Astrid a cookie and a paper towel. 

 

The soft piano notes of Lockhart’s new tune drift into the apartment prompting Quinn to get up from the couch and move back to the windows; Carrie joining him moments later, her arm around his waist, her head resting on his shoulder. 

 

“Mmmmm. Good cookie… So. You call him Peter. I do, too.” Astrid says, doing her best to engage the young child.

 

“Mommy calls him Quinn. That’s so weird,” she rolls her eyes, her expression looking identical to the one her mother often makes, causing Astrid to laugh and almost choke on her cookie. 

 

“Hey. Isn’t that Miss Lonelyhearts? With Lockhart? On his couch. Look,” Carrie snorts. “She’s giggling. And flirting. How do you like that?” 

 

“You can tell she’s flirting from here? You can’t even hear what they’re saying,” Quinn says, glancing over towards Lockhart’s apartment. 

 

“Female intuition. You wouldn’t understand,” Carrie smiles, pulling him in a little closer. 

 

“Speaking of new couples, take a look over in Fara’s apartment. He’s been sleeping over. Looks a bit nerdy for her,” Quinn says, squinting to bring Max into better focus.

 

“He’s cute. He wears glasses so he’s a nerd?”

 

“He’s a nerd because he barely talks and spends too much time staring at his laptop instead of his woman. I think maybe he’s mute.” Quinn responds flatly as Carrie rolls her eyes and gives him a pinch on his waist.

 

“I thought you were going to stop spying on your neighbors, Quinn. Particularly the attractive ones. I think we may need those steel shutters back at the house after all.”

 

“Why? Do you have any hot neighbors?” he looks over at her, his eyebrows raised, then bends down to give her a kiss on her forehead. “Carrie, you’re the only woman I want; will ever want,” he whispers, his lips moving to the soft skin behind her ear for a quick nuzzle.

 

“Scheiße!” Astrid calls out, still chewing her cookie, getting up and walking towards the window on the right. “So those are the newlyweds,” Astrid says dreamily, her head tilted watching the couple in the corner apartment. 

 

“Crap!” Carrie looks back at Franny who is stealthily taking another cookie and not paying attention to the X-rated action across the courtyard. “Close that shade, Astrid. Now… Please,” Carrie urges.

 

“Sure,” Astrid responds, hastily pulling it down behind her, leaving her body in between the shade and the window, not wanting to miss any of the show. 

 

“Mommy. My tummy hurts,” Franny whines, her face covered in chocolate and cookie crumbs. 

 

Carrie looks over at her daughter and shakes her head. “Franny! How many of those cookies did you eat?” Carrie asks, her voice stern.

 

“I dunno.” Franny shrugs her shoulders, then brings her knees up into her chest. 

 

Carrie turns back to Quinn, “Welcome to your new life, Peter Quinn. You sure you want this?” 

 

“Fuck, yeah,” he whispers back at Carrie, his lips turning up in a smile. 

 

“Well, then, she’s all yours. Go for it,” she smiles, giving him a quick kiss before sending him on his way.

 

She watches as Quinn limps over to the couch and sits down next to Franny. 

 

“Where does it hurt?” he asks thoughtfully and with concern.

 

“Right here,” she points to the middle of her belly, her lips forming a sweet pout. 

 

Quinn touches the spot on her stomach, rubbing it gently, pulling her small body to lie across his lap. “When I was little and I had a belly ache, my grandmother would let me drink soda. She said the bubbles would help me to burp and that would make me feel better.”

 

“And did it work?” Franny questions, her face turning up to his — her eyes wide with curiosity. 

 

“It did,” he assures her. “Do you want to try?” 

 

“Will mommy let me? She doesn’t like it when I burp.”

 

“I think she will,” he looks up at Carrie, who’s intently watching her two loves interact and bond; her face glowing in delight when she gives an approving nod. 

 

“Okay,” Franny shakes her head, her eyes filling up with tears. “Peter, I’m really sorry I ate most of your cookies.” 

 

“It’s okay. You can make me more another time. Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen. You have some burping to do,” he smiles as Franny smiles back and giggles. He lifts her tiny body up to a standing position, then gets himself up. Taking her small hand into his, he leads her to the kitchen; Carrie looking on while she silently thanks god, grateful for giving all of them a second chance at life, at love. 

 

——————————————

 

They make love again that evening, both of them thoroughly enjoying Quinn’s newfound freedom of movement without the cast on his leg. 

 

It had been a productive day and they were exhausted. They were able to pack most of Quinn’s things but, more importantly, Quinn and Franny seemed to immediately form a bond. 

 

It had been different when he lived in Carrie’s basement. He was different.  He didn’t want to love the little girl that was so much like her mother — fearing it would only lead to more heartbreak for him, and even worse, for Franny. He couldn’t risk hurting another child. He had already abandoned his own son, he wouldn’t allow himself to become close with her when he felt his fate, his destiny, was only to be filled with pain and misery. 

 

But that’s all changed. 

 

This would be their last night in this apartment, where their pasts were forgiven and their future, together, was determined. Tomorrow they start their new life as a family. 

 

He holds Carrie tightly in his strong arms, watching her peacefully sleeping. It all seems almost too good to be true. That he could be content, even happy. And that he could make these two other beautiful, yet complicated, souls happy as well. 

 

He leans over and kisses her gently on her forehead. 

 

“Fuck me.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the end?? Maybe not. There just might be an alternate ending coming your way very soon.


	7. Day Five Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or...it could have gone this way.   
> Still sexy, sweet and a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts after the scene when Quinn takes Franny into the kitchen for soda and burps.
> 
> Thanks again to FrangipaniFlower and LeBlanc1!

The shades are closed and it’s dark in the living room when Quinn opens his eyes, hearing the sound of laughter coming from the other side of the apartment. 

 

He gets up slowly from the couch, remembering to step carefully this time, not wanting to risk another injury, and follows the laughter to his bedroom. 

 

Opening the door, he finds Astrid and Carrie sitting on the edge of the bed, glasses in hand, drinking what looks to be about half of the bottle of Talisker that he had been saving for a special occasion.

 

“Quinn, you’re finally up. You were out for a few hours,” Carrie says, trying to contain her drunk giggles. 

 

“Yeah. What time is it? Where’s Franny?” Quinn rubs his eyes, caught slightly off guard at the scene in front of him.

 

“Oh, Maggie picked her up a couple hours ago. Astrid and I are just having a little moving party.” 

 

“I see. Since I’m the one moving, shouldn’t I have been included?” he smiles at the women, his voice hoarse.

 

“Of course, Peter. You’re the guest of honor. Have a drink and catch up,” Astrid smiles, getting up to hand him the bottle, then helping him sit down on bed, in between Carrie and herself. 

 

Quinn takes a long swig of the booze, immediately feeling the warmth spreading throughout his body, then up to his head. He closes his eyes briefly, enjoying the sensation of lightheadedness and the sweet, smoky taste of the single malt rolling over his tongue. 

 

“So…” Quinn takes another swig from the bottle, “what are you two plotting? No more operations, I hope,” his eyes darting back and forth between his two blonde bookends. 

 

“Definitely not. No, it was something much more...pleasurable,” Carrie hints, her lips turning up in a seductive smile. “You find Astrid attractive, right?”

 

“Huh?” He gives Carrie a long puzzled look, not quite sure how she really wants him to answer the question. 

 

“It’s okay, Quinn. Really. Astrid is a beautiful woman. You can admit it. I find her attractive. Very attractive, in fact. And she finds both of us attractive.”

 

Quinn’s head is now spinning, the combination of the alcohol and Carrie’s confession about Astrid; not knowing if this is a fantasy come true or he’s walking into a trap that will ruin everything. 

 

“What the fuck, Carrie? Are you off your meds? Or just wasted?” He continues to proceed cautiously, his eyes searching Carrie’s for the truth; not even daring to look away from her to Astrid who is sitting quietly next to him. 

 

“I’m a little drunk, but I’m not fucking with you, Quinn. And I’m not off my meds...  _ Really _ . I experimented when I was in college, but I’ve never had a threesome before and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”  Quinn takes another gulp of whiskey, his head reeling.

 

“Threesome? You want the three of us…” Quinn stutters, floored, not even able to complete his sentence; finally looking away from Carrie and to Astrid, who is smiling in agreement. “You, too? Well… yeah, sure I find you attractive. But, you like women? What about your husband? You like Carrie?” Quinn babbles nervously.

 

“Slow down, Peter,” Astrid laughs. “This is the most I’ve ever heard you talk — and this  _ isn’t _ the time to be talking.” Astrid leans in, her lips brushing up against his, while Quinn remains frozen, not knowing what to do. 

 

He slowly turns back to Carrie, feeling both fear and excitement as Carrie responds with a reassuring nod. 

 

“See, Quinn? It’s fine. She’s a good kisser, right?” Carrie giggles, her cheeks turning pink.

 

“So you two were making out before I woke up? Holy fuck,” he gasps, clearing his throat, his eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, Peter. Relax,” Astrid breathes, her hand reaching down to stroke his thigh. “I’ll be gentle. I promise. It won’t be like therapy.”

 

“Is my insurance covering this?”

 

“Consider this ‘out of network’,” Astrid grins, her hand moving further up his thigh. 

 

“Fuck,” Quinn mumbles, his cock already stiffening in response as he takes another drink. 

 

_ If this is a dream, please don’t let me wake up.  _

 

He looks back at Carrie, giving her one last chance to come clean and stop fucking with his head — thinking this would be one of the cruelest jokes she could ever play on him. 

 

“There will be some rules, now, so don’t get too excited.”

 

“Too late.”

 

“ You  _ can’t _ fuck Astrid. Understand? In no way is your dick to enter her — only me. Got it?”

 

“Sure. Got it.” 

 

“Actually, you can’t even touch her. But she can touch you. And Astrid and I can do whatever we want to each other. Is that  _ clear _ , Quinn?” Carrie’s eyes narrowing, her face deadly serious.

 

“Ah, sure. But are  _ you _ sure?” he whispers to Carrie, leaning in to kiss her gently.

 

“Yes,” she smiles, her hand touching his cheek, prompting Quinn to move in for another soft kiss.

 

“So how is this going to work? Who starts?” Quinn asks excitedly, like a kid about to open his presents on Christmas Day. His cock at full attention now, straining inside his pants. 

 

“We start. You watch.” Astrid responds, her voice low and husky as she stands up and faces Carrie, holding out her hand to her. 

 

Carrie follows her lead, the two women now standing in front of Quinn, facing each other. 

 

Astrid moves closer to Carrie, her hand moving up to stroke the back of her head before pulling her in, their lips joining for a soft kiss. 

 

The next few minutes are a blur of shirts and bras being torn off, beautiful, soft lips touching, tongues meeting, small, delicate hands fondling breasts, as the two women explore each other’s bodies; Quinn watching, waiting, his body and mind about to explode.

 

Carrie pulls back from Astrid, her hair tousled, her full lips red and swollen as she reaches for Astrid’s hand, both now facing Quinn and moving towards him. Astrid sinks to her knees in front of him, slowly pulling down his pants and boxers while Carrie, now sitting next to him, divests him of his shirt. 

 

“Are you ready, Quinn?” Carrie whispers softly in his ear, as her hand begins to caress his chest, gently pushing him down backwards on the bed. 

 

“Fuck me,” Quinn mutters as Astrid joins Carrie on the bed, both women on either side of him, kneeling, smiling down at him as he braces himself for the experience of a lifetime, hoping and praying he can make it last more than a nanosecond. 

 

He closes his eyes, and then it begins — four gentle hands, two pairs of soft lips, and two moist tongues, all making their way down his torso, slowly, methodically, getting closer and closer to his throbbing cock.

 

“Quinn,” he hears Carrie’s voice, soft and low, almost sounding like it’s coming from miles away.

 

He groans loudly, his body writhing, his face contorted as his eyes remain closed.

 

“Quinn! Wake the fuck up! You’ll wake Franny,” Carrie’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him roughly.

 

“Fuck...Fuck! I was dreaming,” he grumbles, his eyes popping open, his hand running through his hair. 

 

“Dreaming? It must have been a nightmare; you were moaning….Or maybe not a nightmare.” Carrie notices Quinn’s tented boxer shorts. “Who exactly were you dreaming about?” Carrie asks, her eyes narrowing, kneeling next to him as he lies on the couch.

 

“Uhm...Astrid.  _ And _ you. You were making out. And doing other things. It was really hot. And I was about to join in when you woke me up.”

 

“Sorry.” Carrie rolls her eyes. 

 

Quinn sits up, his hand rubbing his face in attempt to clear his mind, but it only allows more of the dream to flood his memory, overwhelming him unexpectedly. 

 

“No, but part of it  _ was _ a nightmare,” he recollects, his eyes wide as he focuses on Carrie. “We never got together. I had gone to Syria after your father’s funeral. Then somehow I ended up having a stroke after being gassed by terrorists in Berlin.”

 

“What? Jesus, Quinn,” she gasps, getting up and sitting down next to him.

 

“That’s not even the weirdest part. I was confined to a wheelchair and living in an apartment, spying on my neighbors — Fara and Lockhart and Br...Brian.”

 

“Who’s Brian?”

 

“Ah,... that new guy. From work… Anyway, Saul was there, too. He lived across the courtyard and I saw him kill Mira — or at least I thought I did. But nobody believed me, except you.”

 

“Quinn, were you watching the Jimmy Stewart movie marathon on TCM again? I’m guessing Rear Window was on tonight,” Carrie smiles, her eyebrows raised.

 

“Oh. Yeah. That makes sense now.”

 

“So who was I?” 

 

“Huh?”

 

“Which part did I play in the dream? From the movie.”

 

“Grace Kelly, obviously. But I kept pushing you away because I thought I was too damaged for you to love,” he continues, the dream coming back to him in pieces. “But you were persistent … no surprise there. And then I gave in. And we fucked — a lot. It was really hot.”

 

“Quinn, that’s not that much different from reality, now is it?  So what happened? Did we get Saul?”

 

“We did. Astrid helped.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“She was my physical therapist. You were jealous cause she saw my dick.”

 

“Well, that’s not far from the truth, either.”

 

“And then, well, the threesome… almost. I think maybe I should give Astrid a call. You never know — maybe she’d like you this time.”

 

“Seriously, Quinn.  We’re already overcrowded in bed these days,” Carrie smiles, her hand on her protruding belly. “And that ring on your finger says you’re all mine, and I don’t share.”

 

“Well, you’re plenty enough for me. This family is all I’ll ever want or need,” he says tenderly, pulling her onto his lap, his hand softly caressing her belly. “You,” he whispers, kissing her cheek. “And you,” he says, lifting up the bottom of her shirt to place a kiss on her belly button. “ And Franny,” raising his head back up, his eyes meeting hers. 

 

“I know. And what about this little guy? We still need to come up with a name, you know… How about James? Or Jeffrey? Or Rupert?”

 

“Rupert?”

 

“Like that hot British actor, Rupert Everett.” 

 

“Definitely not Rupert. That’s just asking for him to be bullied his entire life. And what would we call him for short? Rupes? That sounds ridiculous. But... how about Harrison?”

 

“Like Harrison Ford?”

 

“Well, unless you prefer Han Solo Quinn or Indiana Quinn. But I was actually thinking about my grandmother. Her last name was Harrison,” he says quietly, glancing down momentarily before taking in a deep breath and resuming eye contact. 

 

“Yes. I like that. Harrison Quinn. I really do,” she beams, overwhelmed with emotion, placing her hand on his cheek.

 

“So, now that we’ve decided on a name and I’m awake and you’re awake…”

 

He pulls her closer, his lips meeting hers for a soft, lingering kiss. 

 

“Quinn. Just keep it quiet. Franny...” she sighs against his lips. 

 

“Yeah. Sure,” he adds his tongue, exploring her sweet mouth; his hand moving up her shirt and finding her tender, swollen breast. 

 

“Quinn,” she moans, before he suddenly breaks the kiss, and looks at her, his eyes narrow. 

 

“Hey, did I tell you about the dream I had last week, after watching It’s a Wonderful Life?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing this story almost one year ago when I had so much hope for Quinn and Carrie, so ending it is a little bittersweet for me. Thanks to everyone reading for your kudos, wonderful comments and support throughout. As long as we all continue to write and read our own versions of a happy ending for these two star-crossed almost lovers, they will live on in our hearts and our minds the way it should have been. Fuck you, AFG!


End file.
